


ali di un corvo

by ravynwytch



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Anal Sex, Angst, Blood and Violence, Bottom Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Bottom Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Cunnilingus, F/F, F/M, Feral Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Imprisonment, M/M, Mild Gore, More tags to be added in the future, Nicky and Joe do not start off together, Nicky has been through some Shit™, Nicky | Nicolò di Genova Needs a Hug, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Protective Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Slow Burn, Top Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Top Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Torture, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, dark themes, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:53:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27675643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravynwytch/pseuds/ravynwytch
Summary: When another's soul is tied to one's own, unveiling the mystery of that individual is only a matter of time.Nicolò is such a mystery. A beautiful and dangerous one and fate continues to bring him and Yusuf together time and again, their souls seeming to call out to each other.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Nile Freeman, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 52
Kudos: 154





	1. prologue - nicolò

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a total AU. The world is locked into a Victorian Era aesthetic setting, though laws and views of certain social issues will not reflect the time period. I just love the aesthetic.
> 
> The full names of the characters will be used almost exclusively because of said aesthetic.
> 
> Also Nicky's look in this fic is literally just Luca as Mickey Miranda in A Dangerous Fortune lmao.

Dying isn’t always quick. It can be an agonizingly slow process. Not everyone can land a killing blow on the first try, a blade might miss a major artery or not puncture an organ that spells immediate doom for the victim. A gun is much the same but a gun wound can be far more horrific.

Yusuf knows this, has died hundreds of times already. He _is_ dying now. Blood seeps between his fingers, the wound in his abdomen weeping an impressive amount of the crimson liquid with each beat of his heart.

He’d been run through and left to bleed out while the rest of his family was swiftly cut down. Their wounds are severe and it will take some time before they once again draw breath. Typically they are not caught so off-guard but these men, they had been waiting. They had known of the group’s arrival and had more than prepared for it.

The question at the forefront of Yusuf’s mind now is who exactly had tipped them off?

There’s a sudden commotion and Yusuf forces his eyes open to look. His vision is blurry but he can make out the shapes of bodies. Yusuf had counted eight men before, when they were attacking his family. There is a ninth now. A phantom who had slithered into the room unnoticed whilst the others gloated over the violence they had wrought.

One man lays dead already, a knife buried in his heart. The bone carved handle is familiar to Yusuf.

His eyes travel upwards to take in the scene happening on the other side of the room. The mysterious figure is fighting the men. The moonlight that spills in from the windows is only just enough to allow Yusuf to pick apart the masses of black silhouettes and begin to take in the other. It takes Yusuf a moment but he recognizes the man. The knife should have given it away in an instant but he blames the fact that he’s on Death’s Door for why his mind didn’t put it together the very second he had seen it.

His vision sharpens then, taking in the other in such wonderful detail: the soft-looking dark hair, the eyes whose color shifts depending on the lighting, the beauty mark on the right side of the face, the slope of a Roman nose. _Nicolò_.

The man drives a sword-stick through one of the assailants bodies, pinning him to a wall. With lightning fast reflexes, he grips the head of the man’s own sword-stick at his hip and swings around, the blade slashing another’s throat. Blood sprays from the wound like some grotesque fountain. A mess is what all this is but it seems to be Nicolò’s preferred method of killing. Decorating a room in as much blood as is possible.

Yusuf catches another flash of the man’s eyes as he whirls around to cut down another. Usually there is a feral, unhinged look in Nicolò's eyes but at this very moment something else has pushed it back. A cold fury. It’s not something Yusuf hasn’t seen before but it is unusual to see it so plainly, where there is no longer a hint of the man that Yusuf is so used to seeing.

He and Nicolò had first crossed paths some nine hundred years ago. Nicolò had killed their target before they had arrived. Andromache had been antagonistic, Nicolò had been amused, the other’s curious and wary. However, on top of those emotions, Yusuf had also felt somewhat entranced by the other. He had a sort of aura that Yusuf found difficult to not be drawn to. Even if he and his family didn’t agree with Nicolò's methods nor did they always agree with his targets thereafter.

Nicolò seemed to kill whomever he pleased.

Since that first meeting they had run into each other again and again. The longest he—and by extension his family—had gone without seeing the Italian was ten years. It had been a long decade.

Once, about a hundred years ago, Yusuf had wondered aloud why he and Nicolò continued to cross paths. Nicolò had only smiled in that barely there impish way of his and said in a quiet tone—his accent pleasing to the ear—that perhaps it was destiny just before he slit Yusuf’s throat and fled London.

It had been the first and only time he had killed Yusuf and he knew why. Andromache had promised Nicolò that the next time she saw him she’d lock him away somewhere as he was far too dangerous to allow to keep running around. Nicolò had used Yusuf to buy himself time. Though Yusuf should have been angry, he had found that he was not. He would never want to face such a fate either.

Nicolò _is_ dangerous and unhinged and nothing about him should have been appealing to Yusuf and yet a thrill runs through him whenever they meet again. Perhaps Nicolò is right, perhaps it is destiny and their souls are twined together, destined to meet time and again for all of eternity.

Being drawn back to the present, Yusuf watches as Nicolò ducks under the blade of a sword-stick, his own coming up and disemboweling his attacker, the man’s intestines pooling onto the hardwood floor, visible threads of steam rolling off the gore. In the time that Yusuf’s mind had wandered, Nicolò had disposed of the others. The now eviscerated man had been the last.

Nicolò straightens up then. He pays the bodies no mind as he crosses the length of the room to where Yusuf lies. Blood is splattered on his clothes and an oddly attractive spray of it dots one part of his face. His eyes are alight, the fury gone, the feral look having returned. It was as if he sustained himself on bloodshed. Yusuf already knew he delighted in it.

“Ciao, Yusuf,” he says, a wicked grin on his face. “E buonanotte.”

Yusuf more than welcomes Nicolò's foot coming down to break his neck and put him out of his misery. If anything, it is a blessing to have death embrace him, to take away the pain.

Nicolò’s tally is now two to none.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of the Italian:  
> Ciao = Hello  
> E buonanotte - And goodnight
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the prologue and I will have the first chapter up as soon as I can.
> 
> And please leave a comment if you can, they sustain writers.
> 
> I have a blog and take prompts: [here](http://ravynwytch.tumblr.com)


	2. chapter.1 - write their names

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not think I'd have the second chapter done so fast and it would be so long. Don't get used to this lol.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: A semi-graphic torture scene and one instance of racially charged language.

_They’re alone in a hotel room in the heart of London. The city that stretches out beyond the windows is aglow with gaslights, offering light to any who might still be wandering the streets at this_ _late hour._

_Yusuf followed him here, had caught a glimpse of the other slipping out of a side-door in a target’s house. Another that_ _Nicol_ _ò_ _had gotten to before them and it feels like he’s always a step or two ahead._

_The others will be here soon, Yusuf is certain of that._ _One of them, most likely Quynh, must have noticed Yusuf wandering off. It’s not typical of him but something about_ _Nicol_ _ò_ _always draws Yusuf to_ _the other_ _._ _And he’s certain_ _Nicol_ _ò_ _feels the same or else he wouldn’t tolerate Yusuf’s presence here. Would have thrown Yusuf out the window and to the streets below_ _the instant he saw the man standing there_ _—_ _and Yusuf_ _knows he’s more than capable of doing so,_ _has seen_ _Nicol_ _ò_ _throw people from windows before_ _._ _Some three times his own size._

_Nicol_ _ò_ _doesn’t have much time_ _and given Andromache’s threat, Yusuf is certain he wants to be out of the capital before she can catch him._

_There’s a suitcase_ _open on the bed. Yusuf had interrupted him as he was_ _finishing_ _packing, clearly ready to make his escape._ _The top half holds books and toiletries while the bottom holds his clothes: shirts, vests, trousers, overcoats, shoes, a few extra pairs of leather gloves._ _Nicolò is always wearing the gloves._ _Leather gloves and long sleeves as if he’s trying to hide somethin_ _g._

_“_ _Yusuf,” he says in greeting. He doesn’t sound angry, more amused that the other had actually followed him halfway across London._

_“_ _Nicolò,”_ _Yusuf says in turn._

_“_ _You shaved.”_

_Yusuf’s hand automatically goes up to touch his face, his fingers skating across his now bare cheek. “I have,” he says because he’s not entirely certain how to respond to that comment._

_“Unfortunate. I miss the beard.”_

_And in that moment Yusuf knows he’ll never be without a beard again and he should question why he cares about what_ _Nicolò_ _thinks but he doesn’t._ _H_ _e does,_ _however,_ _wonder how he’s been caught so thoroughly in_ _Nicolò’_ _s snare._ _Yusuf wouldn’t say it’s love, of course not, he doesn’t really know_ _Nicolò_ _but there is an attraction of sorts. A fascination and a curiosity when it comes to the other that he can’t shake, as if his very soul is calling out to the other. He wonders if_ _Nicolò’_ _s soul is the same._

_“_ _Why have you followed me?”_ _the voice breaks him from his thoughts and he looks up into those eyes that, in this light,_ _look grey as the sky just before a raging storm_. _There’s always been something not quite right in_ _Nicolò’_ _s eyes. A sort of half-crazed gleam to them and he wants to know why, wants to unlock all the secrets of_ _Nicolò_ _di Genova._ _Has he always been like that, had he emerged into the world with an unhinged_ _nature or had he been driven into the realms of madness?_ _Maybe he’ll never know._

_Yusuf lets out a breathy laugh. “I suppose it is because I am wondering something.”_

_“Oh?”_ _Nicolò_ _practically purrs the word and it sends a delightful shiver down Yusuf’s spine._ _Suddenly,_ _Nicolò_ _is in his space, their faces mere inches apart and he feels_ _Nicolò’_ _s fingers settle just under his chin. All of Yusuf’s thoughts fly out the window then and all he can think is how much he wants to sink his fingers into the other’s hair. He wants to see if it’s as soft as it looks but his arms stay_ _firmly by his sides_ _._

_“_ _Yes. I cannot help but wonder why it is we continue to cross paths._ _The world is vast and yet we continue to find each other.”_

_The Italian hums for a moment_ _as if thinking over what Yusuf has said._

_“Perhaps,” he begins,_ _that trademark smile coming to his face._ _Y_ _usuf doesn’t even feel the cold bite of metal at his throat, far too lost in_ _Nicolò’_ _s eyes and how much closer he’s gotten. How_ _Nicolò_ _glances at Yusuf’s lips and for a moment he thinks that the other is_ _going_ _to kiss him. “It is destiny.”_

_And then he feels it, the knife sliding across his neck, deep enough that it will kill him quickly. Won’t cause any truly unneeded suffering._

_To_ _Nicolò’_ _s credit, he doesn’t simply let Yusuf’s body drop to the floor, he lowers the other man down and Yusuf feels one of_ _Nicolò’_ _s hands in his hair, can make out the shapes and pla_ _nes_ _of his face despite how blurry his vision has become._

_Yusuf thinks he hears the other utter ‘mi dispiace tantissimo’ but he’s not entirely sure. It could very well be a trick of the mind._ _H_ _e doesn’t get long to ruminate on it, death takes him swiftly but he’s content in the fact that he knows_ _Nicolò_ _stayed with him until it happened._

* * *

Sebastien is hovering over him when he finally comes back, Nile standing just behind the other. The Frenchman offers Yusuf a hand, helping him to his feet. He’s still a bit disoriented, a broken neck isn’t exactly pleasant to come back from but it’s also not the worst.

“Alright?” Sebastien asks.

“Yes, thank you. And you two?”

“Fine,” Nile answers.

Yusuf gives her a nod in acknowledgment and then all falls quiet and soon Sebastien and Nile drift away from him to one corner of the room. Sebastien leans his forehead against Nile’s, closes his eyes. Nile lifts her hands up to card her fingers through his hair, wrap her arms around his neck, hold him close. And Yusuf feels like a sort of voyeur watching this small intimate moment so he averts his eyes, scanning the room until his gaze lands on the oldest ones of their group.

Andromache is looking over the bodies, Quynh close by her side. The two women talk low, a private conversation passing between them. The bit of white fabric on the bodice of Quynh’s dress is now stained red with blood where she had been stabbed through the heart and that makes Yusuf remember what Nicolò had done.

Now that he’s up and about and his senses have completely returned, he glances towards the bloody tableau behind him. Arterial spray coats the walls and dots the floor and there’s even a messy line of it on one of the windows. The blood has long since congealed and turned a nasty brown color.

The man that Nicolò had pinned to the wall is there, impressively being held up by the sword-stick still lodged just under his ribs. There’s the one who’s throat Nicolò had slashed open; then the one whom he had disemboweled. One man is missing an arm, the limb several feet from the corpse but the cause of death is definitely due to the fact that the man’s neck is hanging onto his body by a thin layer of skin. Another has what looks like a spike from a chandelier through his head and frankly Yusuf would love to know where exactly Nicolò had obtained that particular item.

The others have no wounds that are especially noteworthy, just more of the same of having a major artery—or several—opened up. But then there’s the man on the floor only a few short feet away from Yusuf. The knife with the bone carved handle is still there, lodged in his chest and that surprises Yusuf. Nicolò is particularly fond of such knives and for him to leave it behind…

Yusuf stoops down to draw the knife from the man’s chest. A loud suctioning sound fills the room as he draws it out, all the now dried blood basically acting as a glue attempting to keep the knife in place.

He wipes as much of the blood as he can on the dead man’s shirt. It does little to clean it, he’ll have to do a proper job once they have returned to their safe house.

“It was Nicolò,” he says suddenly though he’s sure the others have suspected as much already.

Andromache’s jaw locks in anger. Quynh lays a gentle hand on her lover’s arm.

“He did save us,” she points out to the older woman.

“We would have saved ourselves once we recovered,” Andromache argues. Quynh only sighs in that way she does when someone is being unreasonable.

The anger is understandable, of course. Andromache fears Nicolò’s recklessness. Their secret is not for the rest of the world to know and to her, she believes that the rogue immortal will expose them all and who knows what that might lead to. She feels protective of them, like a mother or an older sister. Nobody can blame her for the distrust or rage.

But perhaps locking Nicolò away isn’t the best course of action.

Yusuf turns his attention back to the knife. He’ll have to give it back to Nicolò the next time he sees him. But would the other even want it back? If he left it here then perhaps it is a present of sorts from the man. The thought makes Yusuf’s mouth twitch up into a smile.

Nicolò’s gifts are as morbid as a cat’s and as shiny as a crow’s. Two animals that, Yusuf thinks, fits the man extraordinarily well.

He loops the knife into his belt and stands. They’ll have to clean up this mess now and they had best get started before day breaks. It would be entirely too awkward and difficult to explain if anybody caught them in the act. Copley can only cover for them so much.

* * *

It was a foolish thing to do. An entirely _idiotic_ thing. He shouldn’t have gone to the mansion and yet he had because he knew, _knew_ the group had been sold out. Nicolò had ears all over the city. Even so much as a whisper could not be uttered without it getting back to him. He had known for days who the group was going after but only that morning had he been informed that they would be ambushed and the bastard would be running, escaping via ship into the English channel headed towards the mainland, for fear that more assassins would be after him.

He was justified in holding that fear but he also _really_ hadn’t counted on Nicolò targeting him in response, and how determined the man could be to end someone’s life. Especially someone as utterly despicable as Lord Charles Bridgemore.

Nicolò had spent much of the day tracking down a copy of the ship’s ledger to find Bridgemore’s room number. The wealthy tended to board ships long before any other passengers, always getting special treatment as if they were gods.

Nicolò had come from a noble family and yet he detested the rich. And not only for the fact that they had far more money than they’d ever need but because of how they got it. How many people they used and abused on a daily basis; their attitudes towards immigrants despite it being said immigrants whose labor they profited greatly off of whilst they paid those laborers in pennies.

Plotting out how he would approach the situation, Nicolò had figured he’d have at least half an hour to question the man. And then that went entirely down the drain when the time came to make the trip to the docks.

He had had no plans of conducting some sort of rescue mission but then something in his brain gnawed at him until he found himself on the streets, heading away from the docks and further into the city. He had been in front of the home when he heard a gunshot coming from within and he knew the others were under attack. That was when he had scaled the side of the home to sneak in via the balcony window and retaliate.

He hadn’t done it for the others though, he had only done it for Yusuf.

_Yusuf Al-Kaysani_ , the man whom fate continued to throw at him again and again. The man whom Nicolò simply couldn’t ignore, couldn’t forget. Someone who invaded his thoughts more times than he cared to admit. The man whom he did absolutely _stupid_ things for.

And because of letting himself give in to that gnawing feeling, to go and _protect_ Yusuf, he supposes, he is now sprinting to the London docks in the hopes that he will arrive in time to sneak onto the ship undetected. His clothes are still covered in blood and he hasn’t even taken the time to wipe the streak of it off his face. It doesn’t really matter, it’s dark out and he’s avoiding stepping into the lights, lest someone notice him. The last thing he needs is for the police to be hot on his heels.

By the time he arrives, the ship is already pulling away from the dock. Nicolò curses to himself and forces his legs to carry him faster.

He leaps off the dock and manages to catch onto the bottom railing on the lowest level. It’s nothing short of a miracle that he is able to hang on given the railing is slick with water. Swiftly, he climbs up and onto the deck and ducks into the darkness just before a duo of sailors walk by. He counts to ten before emerging from the shadows and slipping into the door closest to him.

The upper class rooms are on the third tier of the ship and Nicolò weaves in and out of all the dark nooks, avoiding the passengers and crew as he works his way upwards. Luckily at the late hour the ship is mostly quiet, the passengers and much of the crew having retired to their rooms for the night.

The upper class sector is a vast cry from the lower classes. There’s plush carpeting and bright white walls with gold painted moldings and glass sconces every few feet. It’s so clean that Nicolò thinks you could, quite literally, eat off the floor. He pushes that thought back after a sickly feeling coils deep within his stomach and he pushes on.

The lock to Bridgemore’s room is all too easy to pick. Shameful, really, when the ship should be equipped enough to protect its passengers from anybody with a rudimentary knowledge in lock picking but it’s fortunate for Nicolò. An easy lock wastes less time, something of which is rather precious right now, especially considering he has lost so much of it due to his little detour.

* * *

Bridgemore hears the sound of his door opening and then the snick of the lock. He’s not certain what to expect but he can safely say that he did not, in a million years, imagine that he would come face-to-face with a young man covered in blood.

“Who are you?” he demands, taking a step backwards as the man advances on him. The back of his legs hit the desk which rests against the wall, giving him no more space to retreat back to.

“I have some questions for you, Lord Bridgemore,” the other answers in a thick accent.

“Get out of my room.”

“Not until you give me what I want.”

“I’ll scream.”

An amused smirk comes to the young man’s lips. He’s a handsome sort, or he would be if not for all the blood and the fact that there’s something just not right about the look in his eyes. It makes Bridgemore shiver unpleasantly. He’s seen a similar look in some asylum patients when he had visited in the past to recruit but even then it was nothing _quite_ like this.

“Who said I would allow you the time to scream?”

The young man moves with a quickness that Bridgemore cannot follow. One second he’s perfectly still and the next he’s slamming Bridgemore, headfirst, into the side wall. Consciousness leaves him in an instant.

* * *

Bridgemore comes to not long after Nicolò knocked him out. That is fine, there had still been enough time to tie Bridgemore to a chair using the man’s own ties. They’re nearly tight enough to cut off circulation. Nicolò doesn’t want the man comfortable, he doesn’t deserve it.

Nicolò is leaning against the wall when the other’s eyes find him. He says nothing, lets the man look about and then take notice of his position, lets it sink in that he’s completely at Nicolò’s mercy.

“Let me go,” he bites out. “I’ll give you whatever you want. Money, women, papers. What do you want?”

Nicolò could laugh in the man’s face. He’s not interested in money, his proclivities lay nowhere near women, and papers well, he has somebody to make those up for him already.

“The only thing I want from you are answers.”

“Answers to what?”

“I need to know who told you about the attempt on your life.”

“Go to hell,” Bridgemore spits.

Without blinking, Nicolò reaches down and takes hold of the man’s pinky. He violently bends it backwards, the snap of the bone like a gunshot in the room. Nicolò swiftly covers the man’s mouth with his hand, smothering the scream that rips from the other’s throat.

“Fuck,” Bridgemore moans once Nicolò retracts his hand.

“For every answer you give me that are not the ones I want, I will break a finger,” Nicolò promises. “So who told you?”

“Get fucked.”

This time it’s his ring finger and once again Nicolò smothers his screams.

Bridgemore is whimpering in pain, a hand still over his mouth when a soft knock comes through the door.

“Lord Bridgemore, we got a noise complaint. Is everything alright in there?”

“Everything’s fine,” Nicolò answers, his voice taking on a seductive tone. “Charles is just unused to the rougher play.”

The crew member snickers in amusement. “Well, don’t break him, please.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Enjoy your night, Lord Bridgemore.”

Disgust pulses through Nicolò but he tamps it down and turns his attention back to the other man who is looking up at him with wild eyes. Nicolò takes his hand away, allowing the man to speak.

“You’re bloody insane.”

“Once again, Lord Bridgemore,” Nicolò begins, ignoring the comment. “Tell me who told you.”

“I won’t answer to some little shit like you.”

The middle finger now.

“Why does it matter?” he practically yells once he’s again come down from another screaming fit. “Are you friends with them? No, that can’t be it, I saw pictures of them and you’re not in any of them. So, fucking one of them? I bet it’s the fucking Arab, isn’t it?”

That sends Nicolò’s blood to boiling. His neutral expression shifts into one of barely contained anger, his eyes taking on a more wild look, mouth pressing into a tight, thin line. Bridgemore looks terrified and he should be, oh he absolutely should be.

It’s not the accusation that he and Yusuf are intimate that drives his mood into the ground. No, it’s the way the man spat those two words out. The disrespect and disgust lacing his voice as he spoke them as if Yusuf is lower than dirt compared to Bridgemore.

Nicolò moves towards the bed and takes up another tie. He slides behind the chair he’s tied up Bridgemore to and forces the tie into his mouth, using the ends to fix it in place behind his head. The desk is his next destination. He takes the letter opener that sits atop it and takes his place back in front of the other.

“I was hoping it would not come to this but...you have forced my hand,” Nicolò says and he positions the letter opener just above the man’s kneecap. “And Lord Bridgemore?” he waits until the man looks him in the eye, “Yusuf is not Arab.” Nicolò drives the letter opener into his skin and into the muscle, working it down and behind the kneecap and twists.

Bridgemore throws himself back against the chair, trying in vain to get away from Nicolò who continues to slowly twist the blade in his leg. What feels like hours of pain but in reality is a scarce few moments pass before Nicolò withdraws the blade.

Once Bridgemore calms down from the excruciating pain, Nicolò removes the tie, letting it fall into the man’s lap. “Back to my question now, yes? Who told you?”

“I don’t know.” Nicolò reaches for the pointer finger. “I don’t know! I’m telling you the truth! I don’t fucking know! It was an anonymous tip that was delivered to my home!”

“And you believed it, just like that?”

“Wouldn’t you when it comes to a threat upon your life? Besides, you _being here_ is proof enough that the tip was true.”

Nicolò hums and crosses to the desk to retrieve a notebook and a pen. A sickly feeling pools in Bridgemore’s stomach as he watches the other move away once again but he resolves to be strong. The little shit can do his worst, he’s not telling him anything else.

“You know, I’ve never been fond of Italians.”

“Tragico,” Nicolò says, deadpan. He moves to stand before Bridgemore again and holds the notebook out in front of him.

“What?”

“You run a vast empire and I do not mean your factories,” Nicolò says. “I need the names of your ‘business’ partners.”

“Absolutely not.” This time the pointer finger _is_ broken.

“Goddammit!”

“Write. Their. _Names_.”

“How do you expect me to write when you’ve broken my fingers?”

“I have only broken the ones on your left hand. Your right is the dominant one. Now write.” He frees the man’s good hand and pushes the pen into it, holding the notebook out and watching carefully as Bridgemore writes down a series of names.

“Grazie,” Nicolò says, snapping the book closed once Bridgemore is done.

“You’ll let me go now?”

“Do you believe in God, Lord Bridgemore?”

“What does…I suppose. I was raised Catholic.”

“As was I,” Nicolò says. “I would suggest you make peace with Him now.”

“Excuse me?”

Nicolò snatches up the letter opener once again.

“What the fuck are you doing? I answered your questions, let me go!”

“I never said I would let you free,” Nicolò points out, shutting the man up at once. “If I had, it would have merely been a lie to get you to talk. You are a disgusting little man, the things you are involved in...I cannot allow you to continue. Not you or your business partners.”

“You fucking bastard.”

Nicolò stabs Bridgemore up through the chin, driving it further upwards and through his brain. He’s had enough of listening to the other run his mouth.

He cleans up as much as he can before dragging Bridgemore’s body to the window and tossing him out and into the sea. It will be weeks, possibly months, before his body is found. Plenty of time to not rouse suspicion with the man’s associates. They will simply believe that he is too busy laying low in an attempt to avoid being found that he cannot take the chance to send them a letter.

Nicolò slips back into the hallway and onto the deck of the ship. He drops one of the rowboats into the ocean and carefully climbs down into it. He has quite a ways back to shore and absolutely no time to spare. He has to beat the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of the Italian:
> 
> Mi dispiace tantissimo - I am truly sorry  
> Tragico (masculine) - Tragic  
> Grazie - Thank you
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed this chapter and once again, I will upload as soon as I can. :D


	3. chapter.2 - il fantasma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am legitimately surprised I have written three chapters in a week. Two of which have been fourteen pages in my word document.

Cleaning the knife had been no simple task. So caked on was the blood that it took Yusuf hours to get every last flake off. But that wasn’t nearly enough for him, no, he had continued to scrub at it until the blade gleamed in the light as if brand new. Nicolò liked his knives, the least he could do was care for this one as the other would.

It sits on his bedside table now. Has been for the last two nights and now three mornings since that night that Nicolò had helped them. When he first rises and just before he retires to bed, Yusuf takes it up, turns it in his hands. He observes it like the knife might tell him all he desires to know about Nicolò.

Nicolò knows so much about him. He had even managed to find out what Yusuf had done for work before his first death and his rebirth as an immortal—miraculously he has no idea when Yusuf died but if he ever managed to dig up that piece of information it wouldn’t surprise the Tunisian. He knows the names of Yusuf’s parents and what he does in his spare time and that is only a few of the multitude of things Nicolò is privy to. And Yusuf knows nothing of him. Not about his past anyway. He knows nothing of the big things that would help him understand the other. All he has are little nuggets of knowledge that he’s observed over nearly a millennia of crossing paths with the man.

Nicolò will drink tea any way it is given to him but he is quite particular about his coffee. He doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth but he does have a weakness for tiramisu—something Yusuf actually finds rather endearing. And in all their conversations over the years—the longest being half an hour—he has observed that Nicolò is _quiet_. The other hardly speaks, only opening his mouth when he has something to say but speaking no more than he needs to, and occasionally he’ll make a sound or utter a single syllable word so one will know he’s listening.

It’s the little things like that that and it feels like not much at all. The other man has kept his past under such tight wraps, letting nothing slip over nine centuries and it only makes Yusuf more curious.

The fact the other occupies his mind so often helps little with that feeling.

* * *

The main room is much like the rest of their safe house, the walls and ceiling and floor being made up of carefully cut stone but the ones in here are older, indicating that this room was the first to be built. The space is decorated with mismatched furniture: red and brown carpets of all shapes and sizes cover much of the floor, their table where they take their meals is made of a completely different wood than the chairs and even those are of a variety of makes. The sitting area has high-backed chairs of various fabrics and colors. There’s an old, beat-up desk pressed against one of the walls, stacked with towers of papers.

Despite the strange decoration, it feels homey and warm.

Copley is sitting at the desk pouring over documents when Yusuf enters in the early morning. Andromache is leaning against the wall next to their stove, sleepily having breakfast, whilst Quynh embroiders in an armchair across the room, and Sebastien helps Nile lace up a corset.

“I never liked wearing corsets,” Andromache comments suddenly. “Can hardly breathe in them.”

“That’s because you never do them up right,” Sebastien says.

Andromache sticks her tongue out at him, fully aware that Sebastien can see her in the mirror. He only gives her a shake of the head in return.

“You could always let Quynh help you,” Nile offers. “She knows how to do it properly.”

“As much as I love Quynh, I’ll have to say no thank you. I prefer trousers.”

Quynh lets out a soft, amused snort at that that still somehow sounds politely feminine.

They’ve been laying low since the mansion and the air has been tense. A return to a light and casual attitude is more than welcome. Even if their work isn’t finished yet as there’s still the matter of finding Bridgemore.

“Going somewhere?” Yusuf asks.

“We’re off to make contact with one of our sources,” Sebastien explains as he finishes the laces. Nile turns to him and presses a kiss to the side of his mouth in thanks before slipping into her corset cover.

“Usually you go alone,” Yusuf points out.

“I insisted on going this time,” Nile says.

“More like told me and gave me no room to argue,” Sebastien mumbles.

“That’s how I insist.”

Yusuf lets out a breathy laugh. He admires Nile’s tenacity. That and the fact that she has Sebastien wrapped around her little finger so thoroughly; but that’s a good thing. Before Nile, Sebastien had been...a mess, to say the least. He had taken to immortality the hardest and it had led to centuries of alcoholism. Nile had helped lift him out of that depression and get him sober.

They’ve only been together a short time, less than a decade, but their relationship is strong. And for Yusuf, it’s nice to see his brother happy and content and he knows Andromache and Quynh feel the same. Particularly Quynh who had attempted time and again to help Sebastien only for her to fail each time.

Quynh truly was like a mother to them all, kind and patient and comforting. But she is also quiet and deadly and cunning. She and Nicolò are alike that way and he wonders if they’d get along. They are cool whereas he and Andromache burn hot. And due to their quiet nature people tend to underestimate them. Those people always wind up regretting it.

Yusuf nearly groans aloud. He has to stop that, to stop thinking of Nicolò the moment his mind wanders to something that reminds him of the other. Surely he cannot be on the other’s mind as much as Nicolò is on his.

“Does anyone need anything?” Nile asks suddenly, yanking Yusuf from his thoughts and back into the present. He’d been so lost in his own mind that Nile had already finished dressing and she and Sebastien are waiting by the entrance to the safe house.

A chorus of ‘no’s’ sounds but Nile doesn’t budge.

“Andromache?”

“What?” the other woman asks as she places her plate and fork into the sink.

“Are you _sure_ you don’t need anything?”

Yusuf and Quynh exchange equally amused smiles. Nile already knows Andromache so well though she’s only been with them a short twelve years.

“We _are_ out of bourbon,” Andromache says then.

“Do not get the Kingmaker bourbon, please. I cannot stand the smell. It is horrendous,” Quynh says at once.

“It’s good though,” Andromache argues.

Quynh makes a small, disgusted noise deep in her throat. “You are most fortunate that I love you as I do. The alcohol you favor would be enough cause to leave you.”

Andromache laughs as she crosses over to the other woman and presses a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“Oh will you now?” Quynh purrs, meeting her lover’s gaze.

“I think that’s our cue to leave,” Sebastien says. He flings the door open and begins to usher Nile out.

“Don’t start. We heard you last week.”

Sebastien looks down at the floor as if his shoes are suddenly the most interesting thing in the world and urges Nile through the door with him following close behind, the young woman laughing softly. He mutters something to her in French that Yusuf can’t hear but whatever it is, it causes Nile to laugh harder and Sebastien to respond with ‘it is _not_ funny’. He can hear Nile’s laughter climb once more even through the door.

Yusuf has observed and read time and again how only one’s love can fill them so full of mirth. Andromache and Quynh and Sebastien and Nile are proof everyday of that.

He and Copley are the odd ones out in the group, neither having another though Copley had been married a few short years ago. Consumption took his wife and he carried her everywhere he went. A photo of her in a lovely golden picture frame traveling with them from country to country.

Speaking of Copley, the man is so still and silent bent over his papers that Yusuf crosses over to him. He lays a hand gently on the other’s shoulder.

“You seem tired,” he says.

“I haven’t slept well in the last few nights,” Copley answers. “I’ve been going through everything we have on Bridgemore—which isn’t much other than knowing the sort of business he gets up to on the side and some routines he has throughout the day. We have nothing on where he might have run off to. We should have waited, should have collected more information.”

“If we had waited any longer, he could have filled another boat. We had no time to spare. At least we have disrupted his business.” Even if only for the time being.

“Yes, but now he’s in the wind and we have no idea where he might be.”

“We will wait for Sebastien and Nile then. They’re off to see what our informants might have. It’s been a couple days, they must have heard something by now.”

Copley nods. “Maybe you’re right.”

“I am. Now, go rest. We don’t want you passing out.”

Copley doesn’t argue, exhaustion wresting away the energy it would take to do so. He simply stands from his desk and ventures through the door Yusuf had entered in through minutes ago.

Yusuf turns to see Andromache and Quynh snuggled together on the chair. Both far too wrapped up in each other to have paid any mind to the conversation that had just taken place. He only smiles at them before silently backing out of the room. He could waste some time training.

* * *

Sebastien and Nile don’t take a carriage. Despite the distance, they walk to meet up with one of their sources in a dark corner of a pub in Covent Garden.

The man is somewhere between Sebastien and Nile’s physical ages. He bears a gnarled scar on the left side of his face and it’s the most noteworthy thing about his features. Everything else is entirely standard. His face is average with a crooked nose and dark brown eyes, his light hair cropped close to the scalp.

He’s their best informant though his tips have been somewhat lacking as of late.

“Peter,” Sebastien greets.

“Morning,” Peter says, lighting up a cigarette. He takes a long drag, letting the smoke barrel from his mouth like fire from a dragon’s maw. “Who’s the girl?”

“Girl?” Nile asks with thinly veiled annoyance.

“ _Woman_ ,” Sebastien corrects, “And she’s with me.”

“She’s a bit young for you, don’t you think?”

“No,” Sebastien answers, tone utterly flat. Nile threads her fingers through his underneath the table. He squeezes her hand. “So, what do you have for us?”

“Nothing,” Peter shrugs.

“Nothing? What do you mean nothing?” Nile questions.

“Exactly what I said. I’ve been keeping an ear out but there’s been not a peep from any of the usual circles I run in. Hell, I’ve even sought out the others you have on retainer and they haven’t heard nothing either. But that doesn’t mean there hasn’t been any talk.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“I mean that there are others who have heard some things but they won’t give me or anyone else a damn thing. Turns out it’s because they’re in somebody else’s pockets and whoever it is, he pays them three times what you pay any of us. That kind of money would keep even me loyal to a fault.”

“We can pay you more.”

“Paying me more won’t get me to suddenly hear what you want.”

“Have you heard anybody mention who this person might be?” Nile interjects, curious now about who they may have to seek out to come to some sort of deal to get information from these other informants.

“I have a name, not a real one, mind, but something his sources call him.”

“And that is?”

“Il phantomi or something like that?”

“Il fantasma?” Sebastien corrects.

“Yeah, that’s the one. Guess they call him that because only one of them has actually seen his face and that person won’t tell anybody what he looks like. Only thing anybody has seen is his eyes and everybody comments about how they’re scary and yet, and I am quoting cause I ain’t _like that_ , ‘beautiful.’”

Sebastien and Nile exchange a look.

“Is that everything?” Sebastien asks.

“One last thing, apparently this guy also has an accent. Spanish or Portuguese, I think. Explains the name, I guess,” Peter adds. “But that’s all I got. Sorry I don’t have more. Maybe next time.”

“Maybe.”

Peter stands and makes his way to the bar, leaving Sebastien and Nile at the booth.

Sebastien turns to Nile and she turns to him and at once they both say it, knowing full well who Il fantasma is. “ _Nicol_ _ò_.”

* * *

_The feel of_ _tiny, sharp_ _rock_ _s_ _pressing harshly into the skin, creating cuts in the knees and shins that heal in an instant. The harsh smell of burning flesh. Screaming._ _Scrabbling hands, trying to fight to get away._ _The_ _harshness_ _of cold metal_ _so biting it travels to the bone_ _._ _Then there is the begging and the crying and the encroaching darkness. The light is swallowed slowly and_ _then_ _all at once and all that is left is the screaming and begging and crying._

He wakes with a start, a gasp punching out of his lungs. Automatically, Nicolò’s hands come up, his eyes dancing wildly over them for a few panic filled moments until his mind calms, registering that there is nothing there and contenting itself that it is safe.

With a sigh, he covers his eyes with one hand. His other fumbles on the bedside table until it wraps around the pocket watch placed there. He opens it and looks at the time from between his fingers. It’s only five past seven and he can hear rain hitting the windows. Because of course there is.

That is one of the things that Nicolò hates about England—that and having to speak most of the time in English. It rains so often and it makes him miss home. It never rained so much in Italia. But he knows he can never settle there again. Not in Genova and whilst he quite likes Firenze and the heart of Roma, he couldn’t be content there. It wouldn’t be the same. It wouldn’t be _home_.

Neither place would bear the mountains and fields he grew up with. Or the lakes his older brother always managed to push him into because his brother was bigger and stronger and knew how to gain the upper hand better than him.

He has to force the thought away. The blissful memories only ever bleed into the bad. He has more negative memories of his home than good and they do not let him rest, do not let him think of home without clawing up from the depths of his mind to tear him down again. But he cannot help it, even though he hates it, thoughts of his former life always manage to find their way to the forefront of his mind.

 _Il mio bellissimo Nicolò. Sei troppo gentile per questo mondo_.

His mother’s words no longer hold true. They haven’t for a long time. She would be horrified if she saw him now. He has lied countless times. He has murdered and tortured and blackmailed. He is not her sweet boy anymore. No longer is he that sensitive child who clung to her skirts and cried easily. No longer is he the quiet but respectful young man who helped anyone at the drop of a hat and offered everyone a smile, no matter how small it was.

The day he died and awoke as an immortal was the beginning of all that kindness being stripped from his soul, of all those happy memories becoming forever stained. Hatred and rage and pain snuck inside him and smothered that benignity. Darkness snuffing out the light.

Fifty of the first eighty years of his life marred by a myriad of horrific memories. By his fifty-first year as an undying being, he didn’t feel human anymore. He had been much more wild then, his mind far more clouded and feral. Practically acting on nothing but instinct alone.

There had been rumors of him that spread throughout Italy like wildfire after the first killings. By then he had been forgotten; Nicolò di Genova no longer existed. His family had up and left sometime in those five decades and with them, any memory that might have lingered in the minds of others.

The parts that were left of him, the parts that had emerged by that year had quickly become a folk monster. Something that parents could tell their children stories of at night to get them to behave.

 _Comportati bene o il fantasma ti porterà via_.

Never mind that he had never, and still has never, laid a hand on a child but parents would use anything to get their children to behave, to get a sliver of peace from rowdy young ones who did not wish yet to sleep.

That was the same year he fled Italia and encountered Yusuf for the first time in Spain. Yusuf had been so _nice_ to him. The first scrap of kindness that Nicolò had received in so long that it nearly broke him all over again in that moment. Yusuf doesn’t remember and Nicolò can’t blame him. He had looked so different then. His hair far too long, far too messy. He’d been little more than skin and bones and his clothes practically rags.

The other man had given Nicolò his coat, having spotted him on the streets cold and shivering. Nicolò had tried to give it back but Yusuf had insisted and even draped it over his frail shoulders for him. And then Yusuf had given him money and asked him to get a place to spend the night where he could be safe and warm and given a meal because he didn’t want the other to catch their death.

Nicolò had done so and it was after that encounter that his mind slowly began to repair itself, at least as much as it could. And nine years later Yusuf and his family had encountered him just before he made his exit through a target’s window. By then he was healthier, his hair neat and shorter, and his clothes were tailored to him and of an excellent quality. He truly looked like an entirely different person. And, he supposes, he was a much different person than those nine years ago. He no longer felt like some formless thing inhabiting a human skin.

A crack of thunder forces Nicolò to look out the window. The rain is coming down in sheets now and he cannot dally in bed any longer even if his very bones feel like they are made of lead. There are important matters to attend to and so he swings his legs over the side and stands. He grabs his dressing gown and moves into the living room, a small section of which acts as a kitchen.

He puts the kettle on to make coffee, leaving it to boil on the stove as he crosses to his coffee table and takes up the notebook that he had Bridgemore write in. He opens it and scans the names once more.

There are eleven in total and counting Bridgemore, it lines up with the other information he has been gathering. He reaches into the inner pocket of his coat that he has draped over the back of an armchair and takes out a folded up piece of paper. His sources had gathered the information on it over the past two weeks and it now came in handy.

Nicolò opens it up and flattens it out onto the blank page beside the names of Bridgemore’s associates.

For a man who claimed to not care for Italians, he seemed to have no issue adopting a code name that was tied to them. Every man attached to this ‘trade business’ had chosen a name based on a Roman God. It was enough to make Nicolò roll his eyes and not for the first time either. Men like Bridgemore and his ilk treated the paganistic gods as jack off material for their masculinity despite the fact that the gods would detest them with all their being.

He hadn’t wanted to kill Bridgemore. Not so soon anyway. The man was a nothing in the grander scheme of the operations that Nicolò was investigating. He could have waited but the others simply had to act when they did and that had forced him to act in haste. Nicolò knew that Bridgemore had no idea what went on once he supplied what was required of him. He got paid and that was it, end of story in his eyes. But he knew names and that had worked in Nicolò’s favor at least. That and Bridgemore’s cowardice bought and saved him precious time.

The operations would cease even if only for a few days, for things to calm down for the rest of them. Until they felt they were safe and it was only Bridgemore who had been targeted.

He’s still angry. Why the hell had Bridgemore been so stubborn? Why had he allowed Nicolò to break so many of his fingers when he had no answers into who had told him about Yusuf and the others? Why did he have to open his fucking mouth and spew that racist bullshit? He could have saved himself so much pain, possibly could have even saved himself from a letter opener in the leg, if he had only been more forthcoming with all of the nothing he had before Nicolò asked for the list of names, if he had just not spoken of Yusuf. It was stupidity, of course. Plain and simple. Bridgemore had been a fool and he wouldn’t be missed.

The kettle screams and without thinking or paying much attention, Nicolò reaches out, his hand touches the searing metal and he yanks it back. The burns are already healing. He closes his fist and presses it to his mouth as he fights off a wave of memories that the sensation brings crashing into him, his heart pounding against his ribs like a bird slamming violently against the bars of a too small cage. Even after a millennia he is haunted and he thinks he always will be. His mind will never truly know peace.

He takes a few moments to collect himself, focusing on the shriek of the kettle and the rain pounding against the windows to ground him. Soon his heart begins to calm, returning to a normal rhythm and the darkness in his mind recedes, leaving him in a fragile sort of contentment.

Nicolò tries again, this time paying attention to where he’s putting his hand. He grasps the handle and turns off the stove. He fixes his coffee before settling in a chair and turning his attention back to the notebook.

Only one of the men listed has what he truly needs. The others are only suppliers in various ways. He’s handled so many private empires like this that he knows how they operate and the top dog is not always the most obvious one. The pawns don’t know where or exactly when their ‘goods’ are shipped off. But each may know something he needs. Even a sliver of it. Or maybe not, maybe they handle things slightly differently. Even so, none of these men will remain alive by the end of all this. Nicolò refuses to leave even one man breathing.

But he will have to be careful. Will have to approach this methodically, will have to keep digging to discover which of the gods is the code name for which man—and he’s already figured that Bridgemore was Fabulinus.

Slowly he will eliminate them if he can get away with it well enough to not raise suspicion until he’s found the man at the top.

Until he’s found Jupiter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of the Italian:  
> Il fantasma = The Phantom  
> Il mio bellissimo Nicolò. Sei troppo gentile per questo mondo. = My beautiful Nicolò. You are too kind for this world.  
> Comportati bene o il fantasma ti porterà via. = Behave yourself or the phantom will take you away.
> 
> (As I am still learning Italian, if anything is ever incorrect please let me know as I do have to rely on translators at times).
> 
> Roman gods mentioned:  
> Fabulinus = God who taught children to speak  
> Jupiter = King of the gods. (Greek equivalent: Zeus)
> 
> This was a bit of a slower chapter but I find my strengths lie in drama and angst more so than action so...
> 
> Also Nicky needs like a billion hugs.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. chapter.3 - more questions, no answers

Nicolò stands outside the gates of Dalton Iron Works. A cacophony of metallic sounds and the screaming of the hulking machines within bleeds through its walls and the heat can be felt even from out here. Large iron carts travel along a conveyor belt, carrying coke and iron ore up towards the blast furnaces. There’s shouting going on between the men working outside the factory. They are not fighting, however. No, they are shouting to be heard over the din of the ongoing work that swallows up sound like a black hole.

The factory is owned by John Dalton, one of the twelve. He was second to last on Nicolò’s list but the man’s business was closer to his home than the others. It’s best to work outwards from where his home is located rather than choose at random and be running all over the city from one to another. It would be far too chaotic and messy and something this delicate needs order.

Truth be told, he’s not entirely certain how he’s going to figure out which man corresponds to which god. It’s a tricky situation, it’s not like they’ll be spreading that sort of thing out in public. He can’t torture for that sort of information either. If he could, he would have gotten everything out of Bridgemore and been done with it. There would be no need to do all this investigative work.

Nicolò had learned centuries ago that you could only torture someone so much. Push them past a certain point and you couldn’t get a damn thing out of them no matter what you did to them afterwards. And he knows well that with vast empires like the one he’s attempting to take down now, the one’s involved either don’t sell out their partners or, if they do, it’s because they’re using some sort of code, making it more difficult to stop them. Giving names could make one want to jump the gun. To get reckless.

Kill the wrong man too soon and the others scatter only to rejoin at a later date and begin it all over again somewhere else where they’ll better cover their tracks.

Everyone handles these sorts of things differently, there are endless ways to approach these situations. Nicolò will have to suss out the best way to get what he needs. Right now, he plans to begin with the method of learning the others’ habits, following them when he can to observe their behavior, eavesdrop to pick up anything he can that might point him in the right direction. Might tell him who is who. It doesn’t always work but it’s the best way to start off. Of course he has his informants but these men have been so tight-lipped that his sources can barely scrape up anything worthwhile. The fact they got those code names is nothing short of a miracle. He’ll have to rely mainly on what he alone can dig up.

His clothes are simple today. Inconspicuous. He wants to blend in, to not call attention to himself. He even has a newsboy cap on, pulled low to obscure a good portion of his face in shadow. Nicolò has never been a fan of hats and he hadn’t even realized he still had the damn thing until he was digging deep into his closet, to find the clothes he’s currently donning, and spied it. It works to hide his hair as well which is a bit too neat and clean to belong to a poor working class man.

There’s plenty of said men meandering outside the gates, waiting. These great beasts of industry sometimes take mercy on those not in their employ, taking them in for a day’s wages if there’s too much for their workers to handle. On occasion somebody might even be plucked out of the crowd and brought in if an injury, or death, occurs. That’s what these men are waiting for. For anything to happen so they might make a few pence to put even just a single loaf of bread and a pint of milk on the table. If they were lucky, they might even be able to splurge a bit on cheese or potatoes.

It’s nothing but a constant struggle for the working class. It shouldn’t be, but it is.

Nicolò has been asking around all morning about Dalton, approaching the workers as someone who’s simply curious about a wealthy man. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, this sort of talk is common and so nobody bats an eye at it. The world is forever obsessed with the goings on of the rich and powerful.

He learns that Dalton attends soiree’s on the weekends at various households and that he smokes cigars in his office with investors on Tuesdays. Nicolò thinks the soiree will be something to look into, especially when he hears that Dalton has been talking of hosting one himself. He’ll have to tell his sources to keep an ear out for when that might be.

“Oi, mate, ya got a cigarette?” a rough voice asks from beside him suddenly.

“No, sorry,” Nicolò answers, turning his attention towards the man. “I don’t smoke.”

It’s mostly true. He really doesn’t have cigarettes on him, but he does, on occasion, smoke. He wouldn’t call himself a smoker though, doesn’t even have cigarettes in his home. The last time he’d even had one was nearly two years ago.

“S’ok, thanks,” the man responds. He makes to turn away but Nicolò puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him. It’s friendly enough to be casual and not give the air of being too forward or eager. The man stops and looks back at Nicolò, one brow raised in question.

“Apologies but, have you worked here before?”

“Few times.”

“Have you heard anything about what the owner gets up to?”

Nicolò doesn’t kid himself with thinking that he’ll receive anything groundbreaking should the other have something, but any nugget of information is better than none.

The man ponders Nicolò’s question for a few moments. “Oh! I did ‘ear once that ‘e goes to some fancy pub. Meets friends, I think.”

“Do you know where this pub is?”

“Uh, think I ‘eard ‘im say Knightsbridge. Place is called Cava...somethin’. It’s French, I think.”

 _Cavalier_. Nicolò knows the place.

His typical attire is more than classy enough for it but he knows he’ll have to bribe the doorman to let him in. The pub is rather exclusive and he doesn’t belong to any wealthy English family that would allow him entry into the establishment with a drop of his name. However, it _is_ a well-known fact that the doorman can be bought. The owners have no idea and the other workers seem not to care which is perfect for him.

However, the one problem people can encounter when it comes to the doorman is that he is a real bastard with just how much he wants in exchange for looking the other way. Fortunately, Nicolò has a substantial amount of money at his disposal. Getting into Cavalier _should_ be of no issue.

“Do you know when he visits the pub?”

“Every Friday.”

That’s tomorrow but he’s not worried. Nicolò has no issue in devising last minute plans and besides, this is something simple. It’s not as risky as what he pulled the other day. And all because of Yusuf.

For a moment, Nicolò wonders if he’ll run into the other again before he kills all the men on the list and brings their entire operation tumbling down. He has found, over the years, that anytime he encounters Yusuf, the Tunisian refuses to leave his thoughts. So often does the man enter his mind that at times it can be distracting and cause Nicolò’s thoughts to run away from him. To think of how Yusuf looks when he laughs or how concentrated he can become when drawing. The passion he has anytime he speaks of something he loves, which, Nicolò had horrifically learned, included sports.

And yet it was impossible to hate hearing about them from Yusuf. Even if Nicolò had no idea what the hell any of the terms were that the other man used. He didn’t speak much when he and Yusuf had time enough to have actual conversations but he did enjoy listening to Yusuf. His voice was soothing, his words often poetic, and...Nicolò pushes all that down because he has to focus. He can’t care about Yusuf, he can’t have Yusuf caring about him, he doesn’t _deserve_ it. And he can’t keep thinking of the other, not now especially, not when he’s in the middle of collecting information and the poor worker is looking at him, almost nervous because Nicolò has suddenly become quiet, and anticipating further questions. But Nicolò has none.

“Thank you,” he says at last. He reaches inside his coat and takes out a handful of pound banknotes. The stamping on them reads fifty. In total, there is over a thousand pounds worth of notes in his hands and he places every last one into the man’s own, closing the other’s fist around it to hide the money from prying eyes.

The man looks surprised, like he wants to thank Nicolò profusely but Nicolò only puts a finger to his lips in a hushing motion. The man nods and sinks back into the crowd.

Nicolò does much the same. He hopes spying on Dalton in Cavalier can point him in the right direction. He needs something significant before Bridgemore’s body is inevitably spit out by the Thames.

* * *

It’s always the damned same after he has an encounter with Nicolò. Just this morning Yusuf had told himself he had to focus on other things. He had tried to train awhile and yet Nicolò kept appearing in his mind again and again. And not just of that night where he saved them. It’s the whole host of memories he has stored in his brain. The Italian simply refuses to leave his mind and Yusuf finds he can hardly think or draw or write of anything other than the man.

He’s composed poems of the other. They are not entirely coherent, just pretty verses thrown onto a page as the words came to Yusuf in the middle of the night and he has them in a box under his bed along with a multitude of drawings over the centuries. None of them contain Nicolò smiling or laughing. There are, of course, some with that barely there smile but he has never seen Nicolò’s lips twist upwards into something that might make his eyes crinkle nor has he even heard so much as a chuckle from him and Yusuf can’t help but wonder what that would look and sound like. Does Nicolò have dimples when he smiles? Is his laugh low and rumbling or is it something so utterly joyous that if one were to get him to laugh easily enough he might even snort in amusement?

He has no idea and he so wishes to find out. He wants to draw Nicolò happy.

Just now he has a sketchbook open and his hands and his subconscious have decided to draw Nicolò’s eyes for what must be the millionth time. He has such distinctive eyes. They remind Yusuf of that painting by Alexandre Cabanel, ‘Fallen Angel.’ Nicolò and Lucifer’s eyes are so alike and Yusuf isn’t certain what sort of conclusion his mind is trying to draw with such a comparison. He doesn’t have time enough to ponder it either because just then the door to the safe house opens and in comes Sebastien and Nile.

They don’t look exactly pleased.

“What happened?” Copley asked before any of the immortals can even think to open their mouths.

“Peter had nothing for us,” Sebastien explains, peeling off his coat and taking Nile’s from her to hang up by the door.

Copley sighs and puts his head in his hands. “Nothing at all?”

“Well, he did tell us one thing.”

“And that would be?”

“It would seem that Yusuf’s friend has ears everywhere.”

“My friend?” Yusuf says incredulously. He’s not sure he and Nicolò could be considered friends. Acquaintances maybe.

“Peter told us that someone who’s known as Il fantasma has information that he nor our other informants have,” Nile explains. “Of course it has to be Nicolò. And apparently Nicolò is paying his own sources a lot of money to not sell _their_ information to anyone else.”

“So, Yusuf, we need you to find Nicolò and convince him to share with us what he knows,” Sebastien finishes. He and Nile look somewhat amused now.

Yusuf sits back in his chair and folds his arms. “And what makes you think I can find Nicolò just like that?”

“Because you can,” Quynh says from her place on the chair behind Yusuf. She stands and comes around the table; her walk is that of pure confidence and her movements are so controlled it’s truly mesmerizing to observe. She radiates such an ethereal aura that she can totally command a room when she wishes it. It works now, all eyes are on her and nobody thinks to speak until she’s said her piece. “None of us have ever encountered Nicolò alone. None but you that is and we have only ever seen him when you are around. The two of you always find each other even in this big, wide world, where it should be, not impossible, but unlikely to continue to happen upon a single individual so often. It is obvious that yours and Nicolò’s souls are intertwined and you will always be brought together.”

Yusuf blinks at her, mouth hanging open ever so slightly. He, personally, had considered that a possibility, of his and Nicolò’s souls being one, and he supposes Nicolò has as well if his talk of destiny is anything to go by. Yusuf had never even considered that one of the others might think so as well. But here is Quynh laying that out before him and he can’t argue with her.

“Alright,” Yusuf says, suddenly lost for words which isn’t necessarily ideal for a poet, and so rarely ever happens to him, but Quynh has simply rendered him dumbfounded, unsure of how to respond in any other way. “I’ll look for him.”

“Perfect,” Quynh responds, an easy smile coming to her face.

Yusuf only hopes that he can get Nicolò to cooperate with them.

* * *

Friday afternoon finds Nicolò in the Cavalier. The doorman had let him in easily after Nicolò had pressed ten thousand pounds worth of notes into his hands. Money like that allowed one access to places they shouldn’t be and it bought utter silence from those who received such an amount. He paid his own informants about the same when they brought him something. Nobody ever questioned where the money came from.

Nicolò flitted about the space, engaging in inane conversation with the other patrons about all manner of subjects from the weather to politics to religion—two of those subjects extremely controversial to discuss.

Acting casual, acting like he belonged, would keep suspicion off of him. It would keep him from sticking out, from drawing attention to himself. He’d simply be another face amongst the sea of countless other faces in the establishment. Nothing special. Though he does appear to be the youngest, at least physically, in the place at the moment. The others all middle-aged or elderly. So maybe his efforts would end up being in vain but he has to at least try.

Dalton arrives an hour later with a small group of other men and they take up a place in the back. Nicolò ducks into a booth close to theirs and he sits and listens, swirling the glass of brandy he purchased but doesn’t intend to drink, as they engage in the exact same conversations that Nicolò had been involved in minutes ago.

They don’t stop. Another hour passes and Nicolò thinks the entire thing is a lost cause until suddenly Dalton speaks up.

“Well, gentleman, it was nice talking to you but I have a meeting to attend.”

“Is it that Roman society thing?”

“Yes though I still don’t see the point in the names,” Dalton says with a small noise of displeasure. “It wasn’t even an idea we all agreed upon. We were just told we’d be using them. Utterly ridiculous. Though I suppose mine is at least somewhat interesting.”

“You know, I would love to sit in on one of your meetings.”

“Not possible. The positions are all filled.”

“Can you at least give us a hint what it’s like?” another asks.

“Sorry, gentleman, but I can’t. Nor do I want to,” Dalton laughs and it makes Nicolò want to smother him. But this is good, this is something. If Dalton is going to meet with the others, he can follow him. Potentially he can find a way to listen in and hear who is who.

He waits ten seconds after Dalton has left the pub to follow him.

The key to tailing an individual is to not be noticed. One should maintain their distance, blend in, seem completely uninterested in the one they are following. Eagerness and carelessness will only cause suspicion, possibly even even reveal one’s true motives, and make the target go on the alert.

Nicolò unfortunately doesn’t get the chance to do much tailing before he’s grabbed suddenly and yanked into an alley.

“No hard feelings, mate, just doing my job,” a deep voice rumbles in his ear.

They bring a garrote over his head, aiming to wrap it around his neck. Nicolò manages to get a hand up, keeping it from strangling him. The wire bites into his hand, his glove the only thing keeping it from cutting into his flesh.

He and his attacker struggle, Nicolò attempting to throw him off as well as keep his hand where it is to protect his neck. Another appears and grabs for his legs. Nicolò kicks out, shoving the second man away and causing him and his would-be strangler to fall against the wall of the alley.

The garrote slackens and Nicolò throws his head back, smashing the first attacker’s nose. Nicolò can hear the cartilage crunch under the blow and he feels blood soaking into his hair and rushing down his neck.

“Fuck!” the man with the now very broken nose shouts.

There’s the distinct sound of a blade being drawn and Nicolò reacts immediately as a third man appears and strikes out at him. He dodges to the right, the blade embedding itself in the heart of the first man. That’s one taken care of.

There are four others still alive in the alley with him.

The one with the blade withdraws it from the body of his comrade and takes another stab at Nicolò. He manages to catch the blade in his hand before it can stab him in the neck. Nicolò waits for the man to try and yank it back. When he does, Nicolò lets it go, causing the other man to stagger, his balance now thrown off.

Nicolò shoots up onto his feet, making to strike at him but a fourth man grabs his arm. He turns on this one and lands a hit on him. A hard punch to the gut that has him going down, his hold on Nicolò dropping. It allows Nicolò to focus his attention back on the man with the blade. This time the blow meets its mark.

The man wheezes, clutching his neck where Nicolò hit hard enough to shatter the trachea. Suffocation isn’t a pleasant death but he needs the man’s weapon and for him to be out of the way. Permanently.

He only needs one alive for now.

The man who had received the blow to the abdomen earlier is up and has now been joined by the last two. The three rush him but they are children compared to him. They have never been in real combat before. They have not been fighting for near a millennia.

Being immortal doesn’t mean never getting tired though and despite all that Nicolò has gone through, nothing can force the body to exert itself past a certain limit. Everyone is different but even top boxers cannot fight all that long in one go. Humans get tired fairly quickly when locked in combat and immortals are no different. The point is to end a conflict as quickly as one can. Average fight lasts thirty seconds. Rarely do they last over two minutes.

These three were hanging back, letting their companions have a go first so they could tire Nicolò out, that much is obvious. They knew he’d kill a couple of them. They don’t suspect he’ll kill them all. They let themselves get cocky.

Frankly, Nicolò _is_ exhausted but it’s more mental than physical at the moment, adrenaline keeping him from feeling the effects of his body telling him to stop and rest. He could continue but he’s already wasted enough time with these men.

His eyes flick across them as they swiftly approach and his gaze zeroes in on the more squirrelly of the three. That’s the one he needs and when Nicolò has plucked him out from the small group, he kills the other two in seconds, slashing open both their throats.

Nicolò drops the blade and hits the last one. Credit where credit is due, the man attempts to put up a fight and does end up landing quite the punch upon Nicolò’s jaw, cracking the bone. But that’s about all he’s able to do before he’s on his knees, right arm broken at the elbow.

Nicolò flexes his jaw as he feels the bone heal.

“John Dalton,” he pants, gripping the collar of the man’s shirt in his hands. “Did he hire you to attack me?”

“Yes.” The answer comes out so easily it’s actually a shock. Usually these types will spit in Nicolò’s face before he ‘influences’ them enough into giving him an answer.

“How did he know I was onto him?”

“I don’t know.” Nicolò’s expression turns dark and he wraps one hand around the man’s throat. The other throws his hands up. “Dalton gave us a time and place and told us to attack the person who follows him.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Nicolò hisses, tightening his grasp.

“He mentioned some guy warned him he was in danger! That’s how he knew you were going to be at the pub!”

“ _Who_?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t get a name! Like I said, I just do what I’m paid to do! I swear to God, that’s all I know!”

First Bridgemore had been informed that Yusuf and the others were coming for him. Now Dalton had been told Nicolò was onto him. Who was telling these men that they were being targeted? And how did _they_ know?

“Figlio di puttana,” Nicolò spits

He kills the man and leaves the alley with more questions now and not a single answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of the Italian:  
> Figlio di puttana = Son of a bitch/Motherfucker
> 
> Nicky and Joe insist they aren't in love and yet their gay little thoughts say different.
> 
> (I really hope my fight scenes are okay)
> 
> Thanks, as always, for reading!


	5. chapter.4 - whitechapel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate Title: Joe can you stop simping for Nicky for FIVE SECONDS PLEASE?
> 
> This is a bit of a smaller chapter but the next one will be longer.

The streets of Whitechapel are caked with a thick layer of mud. Cobblestones peek out here and there like diamonds in the dirt. Paint is peeling off of signs and windows are cracked. Rusty hinges are barely holding their doors upright and there are many an empty shop, a stark reminder of how difficult it is to stay in business in the slums of London.

The faces of the people here are gaunt, their clothing and skin and hair dirty. Some are begging, others are drinking away the few alms they’ve managed to procure in an attempt to forget their troubles. Mothers attempt to quiet shrieking babes whom they cannot grant sustenance, milk running dry in their breasts as they have little money to even feed themselves.

Nobody should live like this and yet it’s a depressing reality for far too many. Even here in England, the industrial capital of the world. Riches flood the streets of London and yet little of it finds its way to the lower classes.

It’s the same all over. Slums exist in every country and they are almost all the same. Yusuf can never get used to it and he wishes there was more they could do. Maybe one day they might but not now. They don’t have that sort of money or resources.

In the last four days, he’s traversed nearly all of London looking for any hint of Nicolò. The only problem is, the Italian has always been like a shadow. He cannot simply be summoned like some dog with an utterance of his name—no matter how often Copley and Sebastien compare the man to an attack dog.

Nicolò has a knack for disappearing without a trace and, Yusuf has come to learn, will only be spotted by him when the other wishes it. It says a lot about how often he encounters the man. How Nicolò will put himself in the way of Andromache at times despite her threat to lock him away.

All so he and Yusuf can capture a glance of one another or so Yusuf will chase him across vast cities so they might steal a few minutes to converse. He has no idea why Nicolò does such things. Especially when he lets Yusuf do most, if not all, of the talking. Yusuf has shared so much of himself with the other and Nicolò has not. He wishes so much to be able to open Nicolò up, to be able to read him as plainly as the pages of a book but the man is constantly under such heavy lock and key that it seems impossible. It _is_ impossible. It always will be until Nicolò decides to grace Yusuf with even a glimpse into himself.

Perhaps in another thousand years that might happen. Maybe in another thousand years he’ll learn that Nicolò’s favorite color is blue and that he likes bad German opera. The former is likely but the latter is not. Nicolò seems like the type to only enjoy the good German operas but hold much more affection for, of course, Italian opera.

A ball rolls in front of him and he stops, gazing down at it. The thing is beaten all to hell and several seams are torn open but it can still roll which is something. Yusuf looks up and there is a small gathering of children looking at him expectantly. He grins at them and kicks the ball back towards the group.

“Wanna play, mister?” One girl asks. She’s an adorable thing with hair the color of wheat and the biggest blue eyes he’s ever seen.

“I can spare a few minutes.”

A whoop of joy explodes from a few of the children and they resume their game, leaving him up to randomly choosing a side.

They’re using barrels as goals and really it’s as good as any regular goal, even if it is a bit more difficult to get the ball into the opening. The children take the game so seriously that it’s one of the most endearing things Yusuf has witnessed. A small shouting match even breaks out between two of the boys and one of the other girls steps in to referee. But Yusuf gets final say on if the play is foul or not. It was not.

He’s so engaged with the game that Yusuf doesn’t realize how much time has passed until he hears children shouting in the distance. It’s not the kind that is cause for alarm. In fact, these children sound elated. And they are getting closer.

Yusuf checks his pocket watch to see that half an hour has passed and he silently curses to himself. He had only meant to do a sweep of Whitechapel, had meant to be on the lookout for the dark-haired Italian. But what can he say? He has a weakness for sports. Not as strongly as he does for art or poetry but it’s up there.

“What’s all the fuss?” the blonde-haired girl asks as the shouting children finally make an appearance.

“Nico’s here!” another shouts.

 _Nico_. If that’s an affectionate nickname for who he thinks—and really, who else would it be for—then he will absolutely chalk it up to fate. To his and Nicolò’s souls drawing them together again.

Yusuf follows the group, staying some distance behind and when he notices the all-too-familiar appearance of Nicolò, he ducks away into another crowd, concealing himself in case the other looks his way. Yes, Yusuf was meant to find him, to speak to him, but for now he only wishes to observe.

Nicolò is both handsome and beautiful all at once. The fact his image has not yet been carved in marble is a crime. Yusuf observes him, situating himself carefully behind a building so he will not be spotted but where he’ll be able to easily watch the other man’s every move.

The group of children surround Nicolò, all of them talking at once, trying to capture his attention to tell him how they’ve been, what they’ve been up to. They even lobby questions at him of a similar nature and Nicolò smiles. Genuinely smiles in a way that Yusuf feels as if his heart comes to an abrupt halt in that very moment. The man’s eyes crinkle at the corners and, to Yusuf’s utter delight, he has dimples. Yusuf’s hand itches for a pencil and sketchbook, the desire to commit the image to paper overwhelming.

“Nico!” a small girl with fire-red ringlets of hair tugs on his coat. Her tiny voice carries over the other children’s. “Nico!” Nicolò crouches down in front of the girl, the group falling silent. “I practiced.”

“Sì?”

“Sì!” The girl clears her throat. “Il mio nome è Lily.” Her lisp makes it sound a bit off but Nicolò says nothing about it, only grins at her.

“Perfetto,” he praises. The girl giggles and makes a promise to work on the other vocabulary Nicolò had given her.

Once that small moment of peace is broken, everything devolves into a sort of chaos again. The children take up to speaking rapidly once more, scrambling to be heard and the Italian makes a valiant effort to listen and answer and make comments. Yusuf can’t help but chuckle at the scene.

“Settle,” Nicolò says gently after several minutes of the loud back-and-forth. The mob of children quiets at once. “I must go now, but I have something for all of you.”

He reaches into his coat and pulls out a sizable wad of pound notes. Nicolò divides up the money into even little stacks. Yusuf can’t see the amount printed onto the paper but by the color of it, he knows they are fifties. The man presses at least twenty notes into each child’s hand, making the total amount he gives away in the end close to twenty-thousand.

“You should head home now,” Nicolò says to them and the children disperse with loud cries of thanks.

Yusuf fully shields himself behind the building as he catches Nicolò’s gaze climb upwards and in his direction. He has no idea why he’s continuing to hide, he should come out now but he wants to observe Nicolò for just a bit longer.

He’s finally learned something about Nicolò. The man is good with children. And he wants to see if he can learn more. Just one more thing and then he will confront him.

The Tunisian follows Nicolò to the market. It’s small and open and Yusuf has to use other people to hide himself from sight. He watches as Nicolò goes from stall to stall, collecting various food items and handing over more than what the groceries are worth, telling the stall owners to keep it and each and every one looks so bewildered but nobody raises a fuss.

And then Nicolò is moving out of the market and into another residential area, bag of groceries clutched in one hand. The food is enough to feed somebody for a week.

He stops in front of a small house with a wooden bench outside and knocks three times in a rhythmic pattern. The door opens moments later, revealing a dark-haired beauty, a babe of no more than seven months held in her arms. She grins at Nicolò and throws an arm around him, the Italian doing the same.

Yusuf freezes. He glances at the child and for a moment he foolishly wonders if the babe is the other man’s but that’s impossible. She looks nothing like him. On top of that, he knows full well that they’re all sterile. Sebastien and Nile are the most clear evidence of that. If not, the two of them might have a child or three by now. Yusuf chastises himself for entertaining the thought for even a second.

Besides all that, the hug is nothing overly familiar. It’s more a way good friends might greet each other. Nicolò has a _friend_ and that surprises him. The other is so closed off that Yusuf never would have guessed that he had some form of companionship.

The woman ushers Nicolò inside, closing the door behind him once he steps into the house.

Yusuf waits and waits but Nicolò doesn’t emerge from the building. When darkness falls and the lights go on in the house, the only silhouettes he can see is the woman and her child and he knows then that Nicolò snuck out, possibly through a backdoor or a window and most likely hours ago. He knew Yusuf was watching him and it makes the man laugh.

He might not have been able to converse with Nicolò today but at least it was not a complete wash. In fact, he considers today a victory. Yusuf has finally taken a peek behind Nicolò’s mask. He knows some things now: that the other is good with children and that he has a friend.

It’s a start.

* * *

On the Thames, a small fishing boat is pulling in its last haul of the day. It may be night out, a decidedly terrible time for fishing, but the men are determined to pull in one last net fat with fish. It is August now and soon they’ll be scrambling for other work. They want to get what they can before that happens. Enough, perhaps, to tide them over as they seek out employment for the winter.

“Net is coming up a bit slow,” one of the fishermen says, eyeing the water.

“Must’ve caught more than usual.” Another replies.

It’s nothing that raises any red flags with the five men situated on the boat. It’s happened before. Their nets are not the best and can be easily weighted down, making retrieving them take longer than the standard amount of time.

But when they get the net onto the deck and open it up, sending a combination of carp and roach and pike spilling from the trap, something large comes tumbling out amongst it all.

“The fuck!? Is that a body!?”

“Sweet Mary, Mother of God!”

Panic spreads through the small group, none having seen such a thing before though the practice of retrieving bodies from the water is not uncommon. They had all considered themselves fortune that they had never done so but what is before them changes all that and one man even gets sick over the side of the boat.

The waterlogged body of one Charles Bridgemore lays upon the deck before them, surrounded by hundreds of floundering fish, bulging eyes staring up at the night sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of the Italian:  
> Il mio nome è Lily = My name is Lily  
> Perfetto = Perfect
> 
> For anybody wondering btw, Nicky and Joe will be coming together as a team within the next few chapters and then things will really begin to build with their relationship and I will start to truly deliver on the Nicky x Joe goods.
> 
> Also there is a reason why whilst Joe's POV is often flowery towards Nicky, Nicky's does not linger long on Joe. It's angsty and will be revealed later. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	6. chapter.5 - death and desire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is so horny and it wasn't originally meant to be *sobs into hands*
> 
> Anyway, there's a sex scene in this chapter.

“But the killing blow was delivered under the chin,” the coroner explains, tilting the head of Charles Bridgemore back to expose the wound.

The body had come in late the night before, carried in on a gurney by the police, and the coroner had stayed late to autopsy. The body had come in so bloated by water and lacking any form of identification on his person. Only the fine make of his clothing told of someone with considerable money.

He hadn’t known who exactly the cadaver on his table was until the two men currently standing by the door had come in some twenty minutes earlier. He had no idea who they were—they refused to give names—but the taller, muscular one of the two intimidated him. So when they asked to see the body in exchange for giving him the identity of the corpse and to hear him recount his examination, he had obliged them. He didn’t want to know what might happen if he refused. He was an old man now and could hardly fight back against someone a good forty years younger than him who was built like a brick house.

“What did I tell you?” the shorter man says to his companion, low enough that the coroner cannot make out the words. “Nicolò is performing exactly as expected.” He laughs. “This is bloody brilliant.”

The one beside him hums but says nothing.

“Now,” the man says clapping his hands together as he turns his attention back towards the coroner. “Burn the body and speak of this to no one.”

“Excuse me?”

“Burn the body.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You can and you will.”

“The police—”

The smaller man scoffs. “The police won’t ask you a damned thing. They won’t be coming back, don’t you worry about that. Now do as you’re told...or I can have my colleague persuade you.”

The coroner eyes the muscular man warily. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Excellent. And remember, speak to no one of this. I’d so hate for all my plans to fall apart.”

And he did have so very many for Nicolò. The others would merely be an added bonus if he managed to catch them within the same snare.

* * *

Soft lips press against his own and sleepily he kisses back, relishing in the silky smooth feel of the other’s mouth. The shape and feel is not known to him though, in all honesty, he has only ever kissed one other before and that was all a misunderstanding that ended up lasting not three seconds and could hardly be constituted as a kiss.

Still, this feels lovely and intoxicating, like he is getting drunk on the action itself. He doesn’t want it to end, wants to pull the owner closer, hold them there against him but he can’t move his limbs. It feels like they have been weighed down by stones and in any other situation that might be cause for panic, but in this very moment he thinks nothing of it at all.

“Yusuf,” a voice says when they part, the call barely above a whisper. The voice is distant and hazy but _familiar_. Familiar in that way that tells him he’s heard it tens of thousands of times before but somehow his mind cannot place it even if the way his name was called holds a uniqueness to it that he knows he has heard nowhere else save from one source.

A series of kisses follow, these ones venturing from his mouth to along his jaw, the tempestuous lips leaving a trail of pure fire in their wake. It all travels straight to Yusuf’s belly, causing such a pleasant warmth to bloom there that it threatens to consume the entirety of his very being. And he wishes to let it.

“Yusuf, guardami,” the voice whispers against his lips, a gentle sigh that makes that warmth begin to shift into a raging inferno. “Apri gli occhi e guardami.”

The words cause his breath to catch in his throat. _It can’t be_.

Yusuf’s eyes fly open and they take a moment or two to adjust to his surroundings and he’s in a bed he doesn’t recognize in a room that he has never before seen. Brown eyes lock onto sea-foam green ones—the light hitting them just right to make them sparkle such a lovely color—and instantly he recognizes the other as Nicolò. _Of course_. After all, who else did he know that spoke Italian regularly, who preferred it over speaking anything else though they were fluent in numerous languages?

Hell, Nicolò is the whole reason that Yusuf had taken to studying Italian with such vigor, determined to know the language as surely as if it were his own mother tongue. All so he could more easily communicate with the other in the language he was most comfortable with.

Most of their conversations are held in it though Nicolò has a tendency to inject a healthy amount of Arabic into his sentences as well. He never stumbles over his words. Unlike Yusuf where still there are a few Italian words and phrases that he struggles with in a way that clearly endears Nicolò. And maybe that’s why even after hundreds of years Yusuf is still troubled by them even with all the times that Nicolò has helped him in how to form the words around his tongue. Because he simply doesn’t wish to correct himself, because he craves seeing those subtle smiles on the other’s face, a flush of pleasure coursing through him at the knowledge that he puts them there. That if he continues to fumble enough it will cause the twitch of Nicolò’s lips to increase in size until it threatens to bring out a truly genuine smile.

It’s there now on the other man’s lips as he gazes down at Yusuf, his eyes gentle, yet with that wildness simmering just beneath the surface.

And suddenly there’s the sensation of leather against flesh as Nicolò’s left hand comes up, the tips of his fingers brushing along Yusuf’s lips. Always _always_ Nicolò is wearing those gloves and he wants to one day slip them from his hands, take in the shape of the long digits encased within, the lines that break up the skin of his palms.

The hand draws away just before Yusuf can press a gentle kiss to the pads of the other’s fingers and once more Nicolò slots their mouths together, his gloved hand now resting on the side of Yusuf’s face, keeping him there as if Yusuf might draw away.

His eyes are closed for a few thumping heartbeats and it’s as if he senses Yusuf is looking at him, admiring him, for his eyelids flutter open and his gaze locks onto Yusuf’s own and the light now causes Nicolò’s eyes to take on green and blue and brown and grey all at once. The irises are fragmented, each shade getting its own cut of space—a gorgeous kaleidoscope of colors.

“Nicolò,” he breathes out. He isn’t certain what he wants to give voice to. Protestations...encouragements. He has not the faintest inkling. All he does know is that he feels a deep desire in his core and he wants _more_.

There’s the feeling then of his trousers being undone and it’s _only_ then that he realizes Nicolò’s hand has moved from his face and journeyed downwards. His eyes rapidly glance down and then back up at the other—whose hair is falling in his face in a most attractive way—and there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes and an impish smirk upon his lips.

Before Yusuf can say anything, can even think to make some sort of comment, whatever it may well be, Nicolò is sliding down the length of his body. He maintains eye contact the whole time, enthralling Yusuf with those brilliant eyes of his.

Yusuf thinks now to protest but his words catch in his throat and his breath hitches as Nicolò takes him in his mouth and…

...And Yusuf wakes with a start.

He groans low in his throat and flops back down upon his bed, accidentally smacking his head against the headboard. A dull throb makes itself known at once but he ignores it as he silently curses his mind. Yusuf does _not_ think of Nicolò in such a way. But the brain is a strange creature, it plays the most absurd images as it processes information. That’s all it was though Yusuf’s body is currently telling him he has a bit of an issue that is the direct result of his queer little dream.

He huffs a sigh and slips out of bed. Thankfully he cannot hear anybody else up and about in the halls, making getting to the bathroom easy and quick. He sets the water to cold and steps inside.

Yusuf needs to focus. They still need information and he hasn’t been able to locate Nicolò in days. There’s been no movement on those shipments which is fortunate but they can’t continue to dawdle.

Nile and Sebastien had gone out two days ago to check back in with their informants and once again nothing had come of it. Nicolò truly held all the cards and they needed him. And the longer Yusuf could keep Andromache from seeking out the Italian herself, the better. He understands her frustration with Nicolò but Yusuf can’t stomach her locking him away in the dark like some animal until his immortality decided to leave him, to let him die a final death. It would be too cruel. Far too cruel, in fact, and he wonders, not for the first time, if Andromache could ever truly go through with something like that.

He’d never known her to be barbarous.

With his head clearing up and his body relaxing, Yusuf steps out of the shower and dries himself off. It is still early. Perhaps he can catch a few more precious minutes of sleep before morning prayer and, with any luck, his rest will not continue to be plagued by odd dreams.

* * *

Copley had woken long before anyone else. He was having difficulty sleeping.

Not only was the anniversary of his wife’s death drawing near, but he couldn’t stop worrying over their current job. The fact they had exactly nothing whilst the Italian had _everything_ didn’t sit well with him. There _had_ to be something he could dig up. He had his own connections in the upper echelon.

If their contacts couldn’t scrounge anything up, then perhaps he could get something from those who ran in Bridgemore’s circle. Enough time had passed that there was the possibility that the businessman had contacted them in some way.

It was worth a shot and so he had gotten dressed and set out for the Cavalier. Even this early it gets decent foot traffic and, as Copley understands it, several of Bridgemore’s friends frequent the establishment.

Despite his connections, he has to bribe the doorman to let him in. The man actually has the audacity to sneer at the amount offered—a thousand pounds—and mutter something about it not being as good as what some Frenchman had offered him days before but he allows Copley entry into the building anyway.

It’s brimming with stuffy looking middle-aged to elderly white men. Copley nearly rolls his eyes. No matter how the times change there are always places that will be more accommodating to one type of people over others. With a place like the Cavalier, which is nearly as old as London itself, it is no real surprise though it is still decidedly disappointing.

The fortunate thing is nobody sneers at his presence, nobody even gives him a sideways glance, there are only friendly faces—for the most part—and those wishing him a good morning before returning to their own business.

“Coffee, please. Cream, no sugar,” Copley orders. The bartender gets to it right away, turning his back to the man to tend to the great beast of a coffee maker.

“Haven’t seen you here before,” a voice says beside him. He’s older, closing in on sixty if his looks are anything to go by. The man holds out a hand for Copley to shake. “John Dalton.”

“James Copley.”

“By your accent I would say you’re a London native?”

“Yes. Raised in Kensington.”

“As was I,” Dalton says, a big smile plastered on his face now. “Where did you study?”

“Oxford.”

“I’m a Cambridge man myself.”

“Cambridge is an excellent university.”

“Not as good as Oxford though,” Dalton jokes as he raises his own cup of coffee to his lips just as Copley’s is being set down in front of him.

Copley only chuckles politely. He takes a look over his shoulder, absorbs the atmosphere of the place. “It’s awfully quiet in here. More so than I had imagined.”

“Yes, everyone is in a rather morose mood as of late. There was a multiple homicide in the alley nearby. Seven men dead. Cut throats, stabbings, one man even had his neck broken, I heard. What kind of monster does that?”

“I’ve no idea,” Copley answers blandly, expression completely void of all emotion.

_Nicolò what the hell have you done now?_

“But murder is no morning talk. Tell me, what brings you to the Cavalier?”

“Business,” Copley answers. Now is the time. “Actually, I am looking for Charles Bridgemore.”

Dalton’s eyes widen. “You know Charles?”

“Not exactly. I have heard of him and am interested in discussing an investment within his company. Yet I cannot seem to locate him.”

“I happen to be good friends with Charles.”

“Would you know where he is these days?”

“I might but…” Dalton checks his pocket watch. “I must be on my way to the factory now. Let us discuss it another time and place, hmm?”

“Where and when?”

“I am throwing a soirée this weekend. Come then and we may discuss Charles.”

“I assume this gathering will be invitation only.”

“You are correct. I will drop the invitation off this afternoon and you may pick it up in the morning,” Dalton explains as he slips into his coat. “Will you be wanting to bring any acquaintances with you?”

“A few...five, to be exact.”

Dalton nods. “Then there will be six envelops waiting here for you come morning.”

“I thank you, Mr. Dalton.”

“It is no trouble. Charles will be most taken with you, of that I’m certain.”

And with that he leaves the Cavalier. Copley can’t help but smile into his coffee.

* * *

Quynh feels arms encircle her waist and then Andromache’s nose is in her neck, lips pressing gentle kisses into the flesh.

“Morning,” the Scythian mumbles, voice still thick with sleep.

Quynh lets out a low laugh and leans back into her wife though she does not tear her attention from the food that is currently cooking on the stove top. “Good morning, em yêu.”

“I said I would make it up to you,” Andromache mutters, nosing at Quynh’s jaw. “I trust that last night more than delivered on that promise.”

“If you think one night of, admittedly, intense passion is enough to make up for that hideous smelling bourbon you drink, you are sadly mistaken.”

“Am I?”

“Oh yes. I would say three nights minimum. I have plans for you, Andromache of Scythia.” Quynh has to hold in a laugh as she feels Andromache’s body shudder pleasantly against her. She knows all the little strings to ever so carefully pluck to get a rise out of the other woman. It is a certain type of knowledge one acquires when they are with another for so long.

She and Andromache know how the other ticks in a way nobody else ever will.

“Everyone is still asleep, I could start now.”

“ _Andromache_ ,” Quynh says in a chastising tone. “I _am_ cooking at the moment.”

“It can wait,” Andromache replies. Her hand slips down Quynh’s hip, grabs hold of the fabric of her simple day dress and begins to hike it up, slipping her fingers beneath the fabric, creeping the digits under the silk of her wife’s undergarments.

Quynh gasps as Andromache touches her, she reaches out a steadying hand, grips the counter nearby. She swallows around a lump in her throat, tries to keep a moan down as the older woman’s fingers move over her.

She turns off the stove, pushes the pan back. The food _can_ wait, she wants Andromache _now_.

Andromache chuckles and spins Quynh around, smashes their mouths together. They shouldn’t be doing this here. Being comfortable in their own bodies around each other is one thing, having sex in an area of the safe house where anybody can walk in is another.

Quynh is the more practical of the two of them, the calculated one who always manages to keep a clear head and yet right now her thoughts are swimming, pleasure overriding everything else as Andromache continues to touch her, continues to get her wet.

The Scythian drops to her knees after managing to draw a long moan out of the Vietnamese woman. Quynh’s dress is rucked up to her hips and Andromache moves her undergarments down her legs before pressing her mouth to her sex. The other woman’s tongue is hot on her and it makes her thighs tremble.

Quynh tightens her hold on the counter, her knuckles surely turning snow white. Her head falls back as Andromache’s tongue passes over his clit. She puffs out a moan, the fingers of one hand tangling in her wife’s thick, black hair.

“ _Andromache_.” Her voice is strangled as she tries to keep from moaning too loudly, not wanting to wake the others, not wanting them to walk in on her and the other like this. And then she feels two fingers slip inside her and her hand flies up to her mouth, smothering the sound that bursts out from her lungs. She mutters something in her mother tongue that even she’s not sure what it is but that must be a curse.

“Is this one of the things you had in mind?” Andromache asks, cheeky smile on her face.

“I should make you sleep out here on the chaise for this,” Quynh threatens though there is no power to the words. Andromache says nothing, only crooks her fingers in a way that has Quynh letting out a loud moan that she can’t stop or muffle the sound of. She bites her lip, her cheeks coloring, and it only causes her wife to laugh. She can be such a little fiend sometimes.

As Andromache puts her mouth to Quynh again, all of the smaller woman’s thoughts fly out of her head. Her brain is firmly set on focusing solely on the pleasure being offered to her and nothing else. Nothing else until she feels herself tip over the edge.

She doesn’t cry out or release some obscene moan, all that leaves her mouth is a shuddered breath. Quynh feels weak in the knees and for a moment she thinks she might hit the floor but Andromache is there, holding her up and against her body.

When she comes down from her orgasmic high, she looks the other woman in the eye. Andromache looks ever so pleased with herself and Quynh narrows her eyes at her playfully. “You’re a beast.”

“I love you too.”

“Go get dressed,” Quynh sighs, moving Andromache away with a playful push at her face. A fresh peal of laughter leaves her wife as she retreats into the back of the safe house, leaving Quynh to fix herself up and return to her cooking.

By the time the others shuffle into the room only minutes later, breakfast is ready and Quynh and Andromache look perfectly presentable. There is not a hair or garment out of place that would give away what they had been up to whilst the others slept but still, Sebastien and Nile give the pair a knowing look. They are summarily ignored.

Before Quynh can speak, to fill the air with something, James bustles into the safe house.

“Where have you been?” Sebastien inquires, giving voice to the question that is on everyone’s mind.

“I went looking for information.”

“James, our informants have been pretty clear they won’t be learning anything.”

“I’ll be leaving to search for Nicolò shortly,” Yusuf says. And he cannot forget the carved-bone handle knife as he did last time, just in case he does indeed manage to catch up to the other this day.

“That won’t be necessary. We may not need Nicolò anymore,” Copley says.

“What do you mean?” Nile asks.

“How do you all feel about attending a soirée this weekend?”

* * *

 _Blood. It paint_ _s_ _the altar, s_ _wallow_ _ing_ _up all the saintly white._

 _Viscera. Miles of intestines unspooling from an abdomen torn open_ _by the vicious bite of a blade._

 _The priest cut open from his chest to his groin, dissected like_ _some specimen laid out before a surgical audience._ _Only he was not cut open with the gentle care of one used to wielding a_ _scalpel. This was brutal and ugly and appeared more as if he were torn open by the sharp claws of some feral animal than by a knife._

 _Crimson stains his hands, his nightshirt. There is a splash of blood upon his face and the flood of it coming down from the altar pools a_ _bout_ _his feet, coloring them_ _sanguine_ _as well_ _._

 _It’s sticky, the blood. It’s sticky and hot and it is akin to glue with the way it is making his hand feel as though it is stuck to the handle of the knife he holds now_ _in his right hand_ _. A_ _carved-bone_ _handle knife._

 _He opens_ _his palm_ _, gaze locked on his left hand, held up for him to take in the sheer amount of blood upon it. The blade clatters to the floor and absentmindedly his other arm moves, coming into view. It is equally as drenched in the red liquid as his left._ _From the tips of his fingers to his elbows._

 _His entire body shakes,_ _as if his very skeleton is attempting to burst f_ _ree_ _from his skin._ _But all that happens is that a_ _laugh is ripped from his throat._ _Wretched out of him as if somebody had reached inside his very body and forced it past his lips._ _It doesn’t sound like him but_ _he knows_ _it is. He sounds deranged. He feels deranged. He is._

_He’s unhinged, a feral thing that is barely even human any longer._

_The laughter continues to grow in volume, his body trembling and heaving with it. Something in his voice breaks and as the_ _sound_ _continues to climb, there’s something more to the_ _noise_ _. A raggedness to it._ _He can’t stop._

 _And by the time it all reaches a fever pitch, he’s not sure if he’s still laughing or if he’s sobbing or if it is an amalgamation of the two._ _All he knows is that he cannot_ stop _._

Nicolò wakes. His hands are curled up on the pillow beside his head. His gaze flicks to them and though he knows, realistically, that there is nothing there, his brain wishes to trick him. Wishes to display spots of red upon his skin. And he feels somewhat like Lady Macbeth as he focuses on the pinprick dots of color.

_Out, damned spot! out, I say!_

He drags himself out of bed and crosses over to his wardrobe where he opens the oaken doors and reaches into the back to draw out a box. He unlatches the clasps and flips the top open. There is but one item in the box: a black coat.

It’s a double-breasted frock with gold buttons. The shoulders are less broad than his own coats. It’s an old thing though one would never know by looking at it. It’s in perfect condition and still in-style—fashion changes little.

With the same kind of care as if he were handling the most precious of gems, Nicolò lifts the garment from the box, drapes it across a forearm, and uses one hand to raise the collar to his nose. He closes his eyes as he breathes in the scent that still, after over eight centuries, clings to the fabric. The crisp warmth of the sun, honey, and jasmine—a wondrous blend of aromas.

It is Yusuf’s coat. The one he had given Nicolò during their first true meeting in Spain. He found he could not part with it. His mind clung to what the coat represented; the ounce of kindness he was freely given by a complete stranger after five decades of misery...five decades of darkness.

His hands had been steeped in the blood of a so-called holy man only a few short months before their paths crossed. His mind had still been so fragmented that it seemed impossible that he’d be able to put any of the pieces back into some coherent mosaic of who he had once been.

It wasn’t until Yusuf had shown him that sliver of kindness that his mind had truly begun to repair itself. And though his mind may never fully be whole again, he was far better now than he had been then. Such a small gesture rescued him, wrestled him out from the mouth of madness. He owed Yusuf a great deal for that. If not for him, he may well be in an asylum now, strapped down to some bed in an overly white room.

The last thing he needed was to be tied down. That truly would have broken him beyond repair.

 _Blood cascading down from an altar._ It flashes in his mind and he screws his eyes shut tightly and he breathes in more deeply, allowing Yusuf’s scent to invade his senses until all the red fades away. Until all the morbid imagery is chased back behind the heavy stone door in his mind. He closes and locks it though he knows doing so is futile. It will only break free once more in days or weeks and he will find himself in this position again and again as he has for the last several centuries.

Yusuf is the only thing that can hold it all at bay, even for a little while. The only thing that can bring his mind true peace.

Nicolò stays like that, with Yusuf’s coat clutched in his grip until he is certain nothing more will invade his mind, will not drown it all in red. As carefully as he took it out, he lays it back in the box and returns that to its rightful place in the rear of his wardrobe.

He takes up the gloves that rest on his bedside table and slips them over his hands. His fingers brush over the rosary that sits neatly on the table, offering up a little morning prayer, something he hardly ever does anymore but the action tends to afford him some modicum of comfort after suffering from a dream like the one he had—even if his faith was poisoned for him long ago.

He only just sets the water for his coffee to boil upon the stove when there comes a knock at his door. Only two people in the whole of London know where his home is and he doubts it is Mary seeking him out. He goes to her, she never comes to him, which leaves only one person it could be.

Nicolò kills the flame and pads down the stairs to open the door. As expected, his informant, Thomas, is standing on the other side.

“Mornin’,” Thomas says, grinning at him. He is no more than eighteen and is always frightfully cheerful. He could be shot and would most likely continue to smile. Despite his young age, he’s skilled at gleaning information from all over the boroughs of London. He’s whip smart and trustworthy and that is exactly why Nicolò allows him to know where he lives. It’s not that he doesn’t trust his other sources—as much as he can bring himself to trust anybody anyway—it’s that the less people know where he is holed up the better.

“Thomas,” he greets in turn. “If you are here then I trust you have something for me.”

“Oh yes I do!” the young man chirps. “You told me to keep an ear out for anythin’ ‘bout Dalton. Well, I heard yesterday from some people ‘round the British Museum that Dalton is gonna be holdin’ some party this weekend, gonna be showing off an art piece he’s only just purchased.”

“Do you know which one?”

“I didn’t hear the name but I got some pictures.” Thomas digs into his trouser pocket and produces a small photograph.

Nicolò takes it, turns it over in his hand, and nearly lets out a bark of laughter. No, Dalton cannot be this stupid. Surely not. He would not be so obvious, right? Or maybe he would be. These men most likely feel confident enough to flaunt it, parade it around under people’s noses. Dalton clearly has no issue in telling friends outside the circle of the twelve that he’s part of some ‘Roman society’, after all. It’s practically a badge of honor for the lot of them.

The photo is an image of a statue of the god Vulcan. An apt god for a man who owns an iron works factory.

He recognizes the statue as the one that had been stolen from Venice a little over a century ago. The Italian government had scrambled to find it, to return it to its rightful place, only for it to appear in the British Museum, having been donated by an anonymous patron. When the government had asked for it back, the British had turned their noses up at them, told them it was not their problem.

Unsurprisingly, the Italian government had been less than pleased with such an answer and now Italy was going strong with a hundred years of maintaining a rather hostile relationship with England. They were not the only ones with a bone to pick with the British Empire either. The Museum was chock full of stolen artifacts that they refused to turn over to the countries they belonged to and such behavior did tend to breed antagonistic relations.

The fact that the Museum was willing to auction the statue off rather than return it was an absolute slap to the face.

Christ though, this is perfect. It’s all so perfect and this means that Dalton can be dealt with. Nicolò knows exactly how he’ll do it too.

“I will need you to—”

“Already did,” Thomas says, producing an invitation from his jacket. He hands the black envelope over without hesitation. “Second I learned it was invitation only, I snuck ‘round to Dalton’s place and filched one out of the courier’s bag.”

“Grazie, Thomas, this is all extremely helpful.”

He gets together the other’s money, including a sizable bonus for the incredible work he’s done, and sends Thomas on his way.

Once he returns to the main room of his home, he looks over towards the rack of bottles on the far wall. Nicolò steps over to it. Fingers skim along the multitude of clear glass vials until he lands on one containing dark, purple petals.

Yes, aconite will do the trick nicely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of the Italian:  
> Guardami = Look at me  
> Apri gli occhi e guardami = Open your eyes and look at me
> 
> Translation of the Vietnamese:  
> em yêu = Darling/Honey/Sweetheart/Baby
> 
> Roman gods mentioned:  
> Vulcan = God of fire, volcanoes, deserts, metalworking, and the forge. (Greek equivalent: Hephaestus)
> 
> Why yes, I did use the phrasing 'queer little dream' on purpose. ;)
> 
> Hope everyone's new year was good! Thanks, as always, for reading!


	7. chapter.6 - vulcan

Should one look up the definition of opulence in the dictionary, they might find an artist’s rendering of Lord John Dalton’s soirée tucked into the margin there.

The ballroom is pristine, the marble flooring glistening brilliantly from that morning’s polish, the light filtering in through high windows that had been so precisely cleaned that it would be no surprise should an entire flock of birds fly into them at some point during the festivities, having been fooled that there was nothing there at all.

The tables are dressed in pretty pearl white lace linen. The arches placed about the area are of a similar coloring and decorated with peonies and baby’s breath and crepe pink bows. There are branches placed artfully around the room along the moldings and up the corners of the walls to curve and entwine like lovers embracing along the edges of the ceiling, more baby’s breath poking out and adding some spots of color to the deep brown.

It all reminds Nicolò so much of the countless parties he’d had to attend when he was mortal. Back then he’d been expected to appear at at least one a week to keep up appearances. The wealthy did so love their elegant gatherings.

Only at the ones back home they served actual food. It would have been seen as poor hosting to have guests sustain themselves for so many hours on nothing but pathetic morsels of food such as foie gras, oysters, and bruschetta—no matter how delicious bruschetta is—to name but a few of the items currently being bused about by overworked and harried waiters.

Nicolò does not understand the machinations of the English aristocracy at all.

He downs his second glass of champagne of the night. It won’t be his last, he knows that full well. He trades his empty flute for a full one thanks to a passing waiter and smiles politely at the small gathering of ladies and gentlemen close by who are eyeing him with such an intense interest in their eyes, that he recognizes as attraction, before slipping further into the crowd to avoid any sort of interaction with that particular pack of wolves.

Nicolò has done his best to dodge any significant amount of conversation. He’s engaged in some small talk, slipping easily in and out of discussions with as few words passing through his lips as possible. Refuses to do much more than that.

He longs to put distance between himself and the soirée.

_Don’t mind my darling brother, he_ _abhors_ _functions_ _such as_ _this,_ _particularly when he’s the center of attention_. _Would rather confine himself to the shadows or_ _have his nose stuck in a book somewhere._

He hears his older brother’s voice in his head, the elder di Genova’s tone teasing, as he lightly ribs his younger brother to his friends after Nicolò attempted to politely brush off being drawn into some manner of debate with them.

Federico was never mean-spirited, he merely enjoyed joking around and poking affectionately at his siblings. He had the uncanny ability to make anybody smile with such things, it was impossible to take anything he said personally. He’d had such a wonderfully natural charisma to him—it was no wonder his brother had every eligible debutante vying for his affections since his own beautillion party.

And his brother had been right, of course. Even as a child Nicolò had cared so little for all the high society parties his parents brought them to or they themselves hosted. Always hiding behind his mother’s skirts as a young child, avoiding eye contact with others or burying his face in his mother’s neck when she would hold him in her arms, refusing to acknowledge anybody who attempted to speak to him. The guests all thought it terribly adorable, would coo over him.

His mother would hold him close, pet his hair, kiss his cheeks. Comforting gestures, all of them, in an attempt to assuage some of his shyness.

_I’ve never cared for_ _soirée’_ _s either_.

It was whispered to him like a secret and she would smile so warmly at him before taking his hands in hers and leading him to the middle of the dance floor where they would sway gently to the music.

A noblewoman being ever so attentive to her children was not unheard of but it was a rare sight to behold, especially at formal events where nurses or nannies were expected to carefully watch over their charges, giving their parents free reign to mingle. But their household had never employed a nurse nor a nanny. They only had their mother and father caring for them and it had helped to endear the couple all the more to the people of Genova. It was all well deserved.

“May I take your gloves, sir?” a gentle voice asks him, effectively bringing him back to the present.

The waiter beside him is not the first to ask this and surely will not be the last. “No, thank you, I would prefer to keep them on.” It is not common for men to wish to keep their gloves on them, the garment typically too thick and inflexible for one to wish to retain them unlike with women’s gloves which, in such settings, are made of pretty lace and are thin as a hummingbird’s wing.

Still, the waiter has decorum enough not to insist. Instead, he smiles prettily, bows, and leaves Nicolò with an ‘as you wish, sir.’

The gloves are more than just an accessory to him, they serve more than to hide away those phantom pinpricks of blood upon his skin from his mind. They are there for the very same reason he never—save on one occasion—rolls up his shirtsleeves.

He shakes his head, banishes the memories that threaten to invade his mind. Being here is conjuring up enough of his past, he does not need the poisonous ones coming to him now. Not when he does not have Yusuf’s coat to cling to.

There are better ways to deal with what transpired in his past but how could he even begin to open up to an alienist about it? Simple. He couldn’t. Not without being locked away in an asylum. And changing the circumstances which has brought him to this place mentally would do nothing to help him. He was utterly alone in combating his demons.

Nicolò continues to weave in and out of the crush of bodies, keeping a lookout for Dalton. He has a small vial of aconite in his coat pocket which he'd liquified last night in preparation for today. It’ll be easy to slip into Dalton’s drink and from there it will work its way into his system. In minutes he’ll suffer from what appears to be a cardiac event. Given his age it won’t exactly raise any eyebrows. Men as old as he are prone to sudden arrests.

He would prefer to kill Dalton somewhere else, somewhere less public, but he has to take his chance now.

A small body darts out in front of him then, a child no older than ten who bumps his legs. She pays him no mind, rushing past him towards a small group of children by one of the arches. For a moment she transforms before his eyes and she is no longer flame-haired and sporting a blue dress but rather she takes upon the likeness of a girl with dark brown ringlets that cascade down her back and the blue bleeds into that of a dress white as freshly fallen snow. A giggle like a bell rings out in his head and then voices begin to flood his mind once more:

_You can’t die! Not ever! You_ have _to live, forever and ever!_

His youngest sister’s desperate cry as she flung herself at him; her tears brought on by the morbid topic of death at the breakfast table.

_If anyone is deserving of immortality it_ _is_ _our dear Nicolò. He is rather saint-like._

Federico’s voice again.

His own voice invades the picture in his mind, his asking Federico and the others to cease such talk as he holds his sister to him, smooths down her hair, attempts to calm her. There is a promise that tumbles from his lips, a sworn oath that he will not leave her for a very long time.

A lie in the end.

Claudia is eternally a girl of only ten in his mind. He never got to watch her grow. He had missed everything: her debutante ball, turning away any unfit suitors of hers with his elder brother, her marriage, being an uncle to her children. He had been robbed of it all and not only for her but for his others siblings as well though he had seen all the others through their debuts and was fortunate enough to serve as an uncle to Federico’s own children for a handful of years.

Federico is forever and always a father of only thirty-four, not one of his children above the age of five. Vincenzo is twenty-two and wooing a woman ten years his senior. Francesca is twenty and ever so serious, giving so much careful thought to which of her thirteen suitors she wishes to give her heart to. Marcello is a brooding boy of eighteen who spends far too much time in gambling dens. Vittoria is sixteen, freshly debuted, always jotting things down in her leather bound notebooks.

Every last one of his siblings as frozen in time as his own body.

He wishes it wasn’t so.

* * *

Yusuf is unused to events such as this. They don’t often attend them in their line of work and the handful of times they have he’s never gotten into the swing of it. He knows well how to speak with others—he’s known as the social butterfly in their little makeshift family—but he feels awkward in this kind of environment. It’s not one he grew up in.

He’d been the child of farmers in his mortal life and though farmers feed the community, they are often looked down upon. They struggle to survive and there had been years where Yusuf had genuinely worried that he and his family would not see the next.

Once he’d reached adulthood he’d taken up work as a merchant and though he’d come to be relatively well off, it was hardly a profession that would open the doors to majestic ballrooms so he might rub elbows with the upper class. And frankly, he had never felt the desire to be amongst them.

Yusuf had been raised in the country amongst cows and sheep and chickens, not swishing dresses and handsome suits and decadent food. He’d grown up around the poor and working class, not those who had more money than they’d ever be able to spend in one lifetime.

He tries to be casual and he supposes he’s successful in it as there are no eyes that linger on him as if he were some intruder. Instead there are held looks full of a primal hunger that Yusuf is not unused to but that he has no desire to act upon. He’s flattered, truly, but he personally has no wish to engage in casual sexual affairs.

His eyes roam across the room. Yusuf spots Andromache and Quynh sitting at one of the tables, their own eyes scanning the room carefully, always on the alert in the event that some threat might make itself known. Copley is locked in conversation with a group of scholarly looking older men, a refreshingly easy smile gracing his features. Nile and Sebastien are under one of the arches. Sebastien laughs at something Nile says and she breaks into a fit of giggles herself. At least they seem to be having a fine time of it.

Yusuf lounges back against a wall and sips at the champagne in his hand—it’s smooth and tastes faintly of cherries. It’s not any sort of champagne he’s had before but he finds he quite likes it, even if it most likely costs a fair few quid.

He would have preferred it if they hadn’t had to attend this simply to have a short discussion with Dalton as to the whereabouts of his friend. Would much rather have had their meeting with the man in some dark corner of some seedy little pub where the air is a cloying mixture of vomit and stale beer. But then, they’d never get someone of Dalton's stature to agree to meeting in a place like that.

They have no choice but to be here if they want that precious information.

Half an hour passes—Yusuf nursing his champagne the whole time—before Dalton makes his presence known. He does it with a booming ‘thank you all for coming’ that carries throughout the room, drawing all eyes towards him as he makes his way to the center. Servants wheel in a hefty object covered by a sheet through the double doors that lead into the ballroom. They follow Dalton all the way to the heart of it, adjust the placement of the object until they deem it perfect. They shift, standing at attention like soldiers in a lineup waiting for their orders.

Yusuf pushes away from the wall, moves further into the crowd. Sebastien and Nile find him and the three of them stand together amongst the crush of bodies occupying the space. Dalton is peacocking about, strutting proudly, rattling off about the history of Italy—or rather, the Roman Empire.

If Nicolò were here, Yusuf could just see him closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose as he’s wont to do when exasperated.

He catches sight of Copley on the fringes of the crowd and, as casually as possible, gravitates towards the other man, leaving Sebastien and Nile behind. They exchange friendly smiles as Yusuf slots himself between his companion and a woman in a mauve dress with lace about the wrist and neck. Her attention is fully on Dalton—who has just revealed an impressive statue, that Yusuf recognizes as being of the god Vulcan, to many ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’—allowing the two men to tip their heads towards one another and exchange hushed words.

“When are we meant to speak to Dalton?” Yusuf questions.

“After the soirée.”

“If he had no intention of giving us information during it then why are we here?”

“Because he invited us and I thought this might put us in his good graces. He might give us further details should we play nice.”

That was fair enough. Sometimes to get what one needed they had to butter another up. They attend and watch his little display and after they compliment him and his stolen artwork—Yusuf knows art and knows damn well that that statue was taken from Italy—and then they get what they need. Flattery opens a great many doors.

The crowd disperses once Dalton’s long-winded speech comes to a close. Truthfully, Yusuf had retained none of it. Maybe it was rude but then hearing someone practically make a fetish of an entire culture rubbed Yusuf the wrong way. What is it about old white men and ancient civilizations?

He turns to mingling then. If they’re to be stuck in the estate until after the soirée comes to an end then he might as well have some fun. Yusuf has always possessed the ability to speak to others with ease. It’s what made him such a good merchant in the past. He could converse with anyone with little to no trouble and though this party was certainly not his sort of thing, he found it simple enough to engage in discussions with those around him.

As he navigates conversation after conversation with the sort of proficiency that only one who flourishes in social situations can, Yusuf finds some of the attendants to be rather pleasant though an older woman is currently coming onto him rather strongly, squeezing his bicep and batting her eyelashes in a way that make her intentions extremely clear. He only smiles and politely extracts himself from the group he’s currently engaged with.

Yusuf’s eyes scan the room, eventually sweeping over Dalton who suddenly excuses himself. He is clutching his chest as he hastily makes his way out a side door. Yusuf has no time to ponder on what might have caused the man’s sudden flight from the room as Yusuf catches a glimpse of someone with dark brown hair following Dalton through the very same door.

“Nicolò,” he breathes.

He knows it to be Nicolò even from that split second that he was able to capture but a piece of the other in his gaze. He would recognize Nicolò anyway, would recognize him as surely as he’d recognize his own soul.

His feet begin to move of their own accord and it takes his mind a long moment to register what it is he is doing but he does not stop himself. Yusuf cuts across the ballroom and his beeline must have caught the attention of the others because he hears footsteps close behind him and he knows it is his family.

Whatever Nicolò has planned, he is certain Andromache will not be thrilled with the end result.

* * *

It was an effortless affair to slip the aconite into Dalton’s drink. People could so easily be distracted with a simple phrase, leaving them vulnerable when they thought they were perfectly safe. The entirety of the vial had been poured into the soft pink champagne and Nicolò had watched Dalton drink it.

The plan was for the man to consume the entirety of his glass before the effects began to take hold but so engaged in conversation was he that he sipped slowly. If Nicolò did not possess the level of impulse control he did, that he had worked ever so hard to regain, then he might have simply shoved the glass of champagne down the old bastard’s throat. But he had held himself back, had kept close, had kept his eye on the man and silently prayed he’d finish the damn thing but of course he hadn’t. Of course the symptoms had to crop up before the full dosage could get into him and do what it was supposed to.

That was why he was here now, making his way down the halls of Dalton’s estate, seeking out the man. Nicolò would have to finish him off himself. That was fine, he could make it look like a heart attack. Dalton clutching his chest as he left the ballroom would certainly help in that regard.

He hears labored breathing emitting from one of the rooms. Nicolò stops abruptly and his hand goes to the doorknob, testing it, and finds it to be unlocked. Lucky him. Slowly, he opens the door and slips into the room to find Dalton slumped on the edge of a bed. The bedroom is not his, that much is obvious, it’s too sparsely decorated to belong to anybody and Nicolò knows full well that the denizens of a wealthy home always have their rooms on the top floor.

This works even better. A man having a cardiac event would never be able to climb those stairs and get to his room before dropping dead. In the eyes of the upper echelon of society, a quiet retreat into a guestroom was far more ideal and less embarrassing than expiring on the staircase or in the hallway.

“Go away,” Dalton wheezes. “I’m fine.”

He’s right about that, without the proper dosage inside his body, Dalton will get very sick, yes, but he will recover. Nicolò refuses to see that happen.

Ignoring the man’s words, he steps farther into the room. Dalton whips his head around to scowl at him but the expression quickly melts away into one of calm. Nicolò’s blood strangely boils at the fact the man appears to not view him as a threat but rather some sort of...what, a savior? The look upon Dalton’s face is so tender, like that of patients in a hospital when greeted with an especially lovely nurse.

“I thought you were my overbearing butler,” Dalton says. “What is it you want, young man?”

His gaze follows Nicolò as the Italian comes to stand before him. The light coming in through the window behind him casts the younger man in an almost heavenly glow. The smile on his face is razor sharp yet soft. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“There are some people I wish to help.”

“Oh? What are you, some sort of angel?” Dalton jokes, not being able to help himself considering how the other appears to him.

“You can think of me as such, if you wish. Though I would consider myself more the avenging type.”

Nicolò’s expression drops entirely then and his hands are around Dalton’s throat. He knows how to strangle the life from someone where it will not leave a bruise or fracture the windpipe. Just like with Bridgemore, he can’t have Dalton raising any sort of suspicion.

Dalton’s hands come up to claw at Nicolò’s own but they do not even begin to bite through the leather of his gloves. The man’s eyes begin to turn bloodshot and bulge slightly from their sockets. His breath turns to pathetic little rasps and Nicolò only continues to stare the man in the face, his own not betraying the white hot anger that rests inside him though there is a tightness in his jaw—the only tell of what is shimmering beneath the surface.

_You are so much like your mother. The kindness, the patience…_

His father’s voice invades his mind, the patriarch of the di Genova family having commented such a thing to him after observing Nicolò spending days nursing an abandoned kitten back to health.

He had only just turned eleven when he found the animal half-dead in the stables and there had been times when Nicolò had grown frustrated looking after the poor thing, such as when it did not wish to take milk. His frustration had not actually been directed at the animal but at himself, not understanding what he was doing wrong at first. He had concealed such a negative feeling well or so he had thought...

_The silent rage_.

Federico’s voice now. His brother had been in the doorway of Nicolò’s room, watching his brother and their father as they observed the kitten moving about on its own, finally strong enough to take its first steps. And Nicolò had known then that his brother could observe the subtle ways in which his face would change when he was angry and he attempting to hide it from the outside world.

As he watches the life leave Dalton’s eyes, he wonders if Dalton himself can see it, if he can look upon the kind of rage that has made itself home inside of him. The dark thing that has taken up residence in his belly, in his ribs, in his lungs and heart and throat and mind.

The man’s eyes glaze over, his fluttering pulse ceases, his hands fall to the bed, heavy like stones. Nicolò releases his neck, allowing Dalton’s body to crumple onto the sheets, and in the instant that he does the door is being flung open and for one panic filled moment he thinks he’s been caught by the butler or one of the maids but who stands packed in the doorway instead is Yusuf and his family.

“What have you done?” Andromache snarls as she takes in the clearly dead man between them.

“What have I done?” Nicolò questions, eyes narrowing at her as if in disbelief that she’d ask such a thing.

“You just killed the one man who could tell us where Bridgemore flew off to,” Copley says, sounding defeated.

Nicolò’s expression turns hard then. “Perhaps next time you should do some research before getting into bed with someone.”

He steps away from Dalton and makes to move past them. Andromache grabs his upper arm in a death grip, her face thunderous and Nicolò returns her anger, his face twisting into something challenging and dangerous. He knows, realistically, that he has no chance against her. Andromache is far older than he, she is more skilled in combat, but he’s not trying to get her to back down with a threat to her person, he’s showing that if she wishes to make good on her promise to lock him up that he won’t go quietly. She won’t get him out of this building without a scene.

The one thing she fears is attention being drawn to them, of being exposed. Nicolò is not above exploiting that weakness to avoid the eternal dark that she has sworn to subject him to. Should she try and drag him out of here, he will cause as much of an incident as need be to get her to back off.

It works. Her face loses some of that intensity and her grip on his arm loosens enough that he’s able to yank it from her grip. When he turns his attention back towards the door, his eyes find Yusuf’s and their gazes stay locked as Nicolò moves closer. Neither moves out of the other's way and their shoulders bump, the contact feeling strangely electric.

Yusuf watches Nicolò go, tracks his movements as he glides down the hall and through the door that leads back into the ballroom. He knows Nicolò will be long gone by the time they too return to the party. He glances towards Dalton on the bed and Nicolò’s words dance about in his mind.

* * *

_The sounds of the soir_ _ée_ _,_ _soft stringed instruments and the cheerful chatter of those gathered,_ _follow them out into the garden._ _Claudia is_ _nestled in_ _his arms, one tiny finger tracing the emblem pinned onto his cravat_ _—_ _a crow in flight_ _with in_ _s_ _et rubies_ _to serve as the_ _eyes._

_It’s their family cres_ _t._ _Every noble family has one, often crafted into the shape of_ _an_ _animal,_ _the eyes always some type of gem_ _._ _On the back of each individual crest, the wearer’s name is carefully carved into the metal along with their birth year. It is an everyday accessory up until their death. At that time the crest is removed, the year of their passing inscribed alongside the birth year and then the emblem is placed into a special glass case within the_ _family_ _estate to rest for all eternity with the countless other insignias of their ancestors._

_Claudia_ _won’t get hers until she’s_ _made_ _her debut,_ _something that is still six years away._ _She contents herself instead to playing with Nicolò’s whenever she can._ _She unclips it from his cravat to hold it in her palms, her thumbs brushing over the face of the crow_ _whose beak is open wide, frozen in the act of emitting a cry._ _Her fingers_ _glide over the wings, thrown wide on either side of the crow’s body._

_Most look at crows and see them as harbingers of death yet his family has_ _always_ _viewed_ _the creatures_ _differently. Symbols of something more, of great change, of deep intelligence and insight._

_Nicolò_ _has spent his whole life surrounded by the birds._ _They do not shy away from the occupants of the estate. They have no reason to, there is nothing to fear from them, after all, and the groundskeepers have orders to leave them be, a decree that spans generations._ _The corvids are practically an extension of their famil_ _y._

_It’s only when he’s to set_ _Claudia_ _down on one of the stone benches that dot the expansive garden_ _that she returns the crest, pinning it back onto his cravat. It’s somewhat crooked and he smiles as he adjusts it whilst taking a seat next to her._

_Claudia had found him in the crowd, tugged on_ _the leg of his trousers, and given him a look he knew well. He’d given his mother and then his step-mother the very same expression_ _time and again_ _when he was a child_ _during the numerous soirée's the family_ _held or_ _w_ _ere_ _expected to attend._ _It said that she wanted to take a break, to get away from all the people and noise and so he’d picked her up and made for the glass doors that le_ _ad_ _out_ _onto the grounds._

_Nicolò_ _welcomes the reprieve as well._

_“Better?” he asks._

_“Yes. Sorry,” she mumbles._

_“You have nothing to apologize for. I have never much cared for such functions either.”_

_Claudia nods and plays with one of her ringlets. Their mother spent hours styling her hair and she would be put out at seeing all her hard work undone still so early into the night. Nicolò chooses a distraction to pry Claudia's fingers away from her hair._

_"_ _I have something for you. Think of it as an early birthday present,” he says as he reaches into the pocket of his suit jacket. He produces a necklace_ — _a silver chain with a glittering dove adorning it. “_ _Mother told me you were eyeing it at the jewelers the other day.”_

_“You’re like a crow,” Claudia says, smiling wide as she gently takes it from his hands. “You give everyone shiny presents.”_

_“Not everyone,” Nicolò argues, “Just the people I love.”_

_Claudia admires the jewelry for a moment before looking back up at him. “Grazie, Nicolò.”_

_“_ _Prego, sorellina.”_

_He helps her to clasp it about her neck and the bird catches the moonlight, causing it to sparkle beautifully. Claudia grins at the effect and they lapse into an easy silence for some long minutes before she speaks up again, almost shy._

_“Isabella was asking me if I liked any of the boys.”_

_“Do you?”_

_“No,” Claudia answers with a shake of her head. "Do I have to?"_

_"Of course not."_

_“Do you like any_ _of the_ _girl_ _s_ _?_ _They seem to fancy you a lot._ _”_

_Nicolò hesitates. Only Federico kn_ _ows_ _that his proclivities lie_ _elsewhere. It’_ _s_ _not that the rest of his family would disapprove, it is only that it is not easy o_ _pening up about_ _which direction his heart is inclined_ _. He supposes it won’t hurt if one more knows. Especially not Claudia._

_“I do not like women,” he says honestly. “I...I feel for men the way others feel for women.”_

_“Oh,” Claudia says, drawing the word out. “Do you like any of the boys we know?”_

_“Sadly no.”_

_“Good.”_

_“Good?” Nicolò questions, raising an eyebrow._

_“Yes, because none of them are good enough for you.”_

_Nicolò lets out a bark of laughter at that. “Oh, is that so?_ _Then who do you think would be good enough for me?”_

_“Hmm,” Claudia hums, tapping one small finger against her chin. “Well,_ _he’ll_ _be handsome…”_

_“But of course.”_

_“..._ _And kind and have a good humor about him,” she states matter-of-factly. “_ _He’_ _ll_ _smile easily and it’ll be the brightest smile you’ll ever see, it'll be like the Sun._ _And he’ll_ _be intelligent, really intelligent to keep up with you._ _”_

_“_ _I am not_ that _intelligent.”_

_“Yes you are._ _I hope I can be as smart as you one day.”_

_“I would say you already_ _far surpass me there_ _.”_

_Claudia only huffs. “No.” She says it in such a way that he can’t argue with her so he keeps his mouth shut._

_“I apologize for daring to question you," he says, amusement clear in his voice. "Now, tell me more about this man you envision for me.”_

_“He'll be your equal but he won’t be a noble, he’ll be a commoner. It makes it more exciting...and scandalous.”_

_“_ _Where are you getting all of this from?”_ _Nicolò laughs again._

_“I hear the ladies that Mama has tea with in the afternoons talking of romance.”_

_"Of course, I should have known.”_

_It must be Lady Ariana, she does so adore her romances. The raunchier the better, in her eyes and Nicolò hopes Claudia has not overheard too much from her._

_Claudia continues on._ _“_ _And he’ll be from some far-off place, not from here._ _Nobody in all of Italy is good enough for you.”_

_“I did not know I was so special," he chuckles."_ _And what will he enjoy?”_

_“Being around you. Like if he isn’t, then it feels as though a piece of his soul is missing.”_

_“I see.”_

_"He’ll also like art_ _and draw you lots of pretty pictures and make you lovely poetry.”_

_“_ _He sounds far too good to be true,” Nicolò points out._

_“_ _Well, he’s not. He’s out there and waiting for you and he’ll love you the most, above anyone else in the whole wide world.”_

_“And what of my faults? Everyone has those, what if he does not like what he sees?”_

_Claudia gets a suddenly serious expression. “He will. He’ll see you for how you really are and love you anyway.”_

_“_ _You sound like you know this to be true.”_

_“Because I do. Because we all have soulmates, Mama said so, we just have to find them.”_

_“And you think I will find mine?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Even if it takes a thousand years?” Nicolò jokes lightly._

_Claudia grins_ _and nods._ _“Yes._ _Because you’re going to live forever and ever and so you have all the time to find him.”_

_“You are so very wise, sorellina.”_

_“I know.”_

_Nicolò lets out a hearty laugh and she breaks into a fit of giggles herself. She throws her arms around him and he embraces her, holding her close to his side. Their laughter dies down after a good minute and the air about them shifts suddenly._

_"You will live forever, won't you?" she whispers softly._

_"Nothing lives forever, Claudia," Nicolò answers, voice equally gentle. "Everything dies eventually, but I will not be leaving you for a long time yet."_

_"You promise?"_

_"I promise."_

_And the dagger in his heart a month later cuts that innocent promise short and makes him into a liar._

* * *

In the days that followed the soirée and John Dalton’s death, Yusuf worked to collect any and every bit of information he could dig up on individuals that Nicolò had taken the life of in the past—all the seemingly random ones that they had not targeted themselves—and as he poured over files and newspapers, a picture had begun to form.

“I knew it,” he says aloud suddenly, grabbing the attention of the others. “I knew Nicolò has not been killing for the pleasure of it.” In his heart and soul he had always known that there was more, that Nicolò was not some mad, bloodthirsty beast of a man.

“What are you talking about?” Sebastien asks as he lifts his gaze away from the book he’s been reading.

“Look at this,” Yusuf says, taking up an armful of papers and transferring them from the coffee table to the breakfast one where the rest of his family sits. “Every last one of these men and women that Nicolò has targeted in the last nine centuries has been involved in something sinister. Human trafficking, drugs, genocide, the list goes on.”

Andromache’s eyes scan the papers and something in her expression falters. Yusuf pounces on it at once.

“You see now, he’s doing exactly what we do. He's saving people. He is no monster.”

“He’s still dangerous,” she points out.

“Andromache,” Quynh says softly.

“He is. He’s reckless.”

“But not a monster,” Yusuf says again, doubling down on his point.

“If that’s the case and the killings aren’t random then Dalton…” Nile’s voice trails off.

“Dalton is involved in the trafficking of children alongside Bridgemore,” Yusuf states.

“And there might be more,” Copley adds.

“Yes. This might be a network and Nicolò is not going to stop until all those involved are dead.”

“And neither will we,” Andromache says, determination clear as day upon her face.

“No, neither will we,” Yusuf agrees.

He takes the papers back, spreads them out upon the surface of the table once more. Before, he was content in having Nicolò come to him but now, now Yusuf is determined to find Nicolò. This will not be like the last time when he attempted to seek out the other man. Yusuf will scour the entire capital to find the man. And he will.

Yusuf retreats to his room to take up the knife that still rests upon his bedside table—Nicolo's present—the blade gleams like a diamond. He loops it through his belt. Without a word to the others, he slips out of the safe house and onto the streets of London, determination flooding through his veins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ignored literally every other fic of mine that I wanted to update before this one to finish this chapter. I'm so sorry it took so long but I've been battling with depression and ADHD.
> 
> Claudia out here predicting Joe like a psychic.
> 
> And the terrible business by the twelve has finally been revealed!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


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